


One Batch Per Dozen

by silbecoo



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, Drabbles, F/M, Short, kastle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 04:03:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 36,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6500080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silbecoo/pseuds/silbecoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short Kastle AU's/drabbles with the possibility of going on indefinitely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strangers on a Train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally fell asleep on each other on the train AU

Frank doesn’t know what he’s doing riding the train like this. It’s hot and crowded and there are far too many people looking at him as they rock back and forth. It’s the evening rush, and the aroma of body odor and exhaustion fills the air. If there’s one good thing about the permanent glare he wears, it’s that it keeps most of the commuters from taking the single seat left open on the train, right beside him. 

The doors whoosh open one last time before heading out of the city, letting on the last batch of latecomers running to catch the doors. He’s staring intently down at the bolts holding the floor together, avoiding any unnecessary human interaction. The bag between his feet holds enough guns and ammo to take out an entire city block, and he doesn’t need any nosy nellies asking questions.

But none of this, not his glare or quietly intimidating demeanor, means anything to Karen Page. She’s in her own little world, rushing through the sliding doors, plopping down beside him out of breath. Panting, she digs through the bag tucked under her arm, a long sheet of blonde hair hanging down in front of her face. The soft locks brush along his forearm, the scent of flowers cutting through the thick air and invading his nose. It triggers a memory, softly falling sunshine and tinkling laughter accost him. It’s only a flash, and he tenses in response.

She looks up, holding her recently rediscovered cell phone up to her face, mouthing an apology for invading his space. There’s already someone on the other end of the line, and she nods in response to whatever they’re saying before reminding herself she actually has to speak. “Um, yeah, no… that sounds fine… I can’t make it tonight, I’m exhausted… I’m just gonna go home and hit the sheets… Don’t worry about it… See you tomorrow.”

The phone slips back into her bag quietly, and she turns away from Frank. He’s a man of quiet observation, so it’s not surprising that he notices the little circles under her eyes, dark smudges marring her fair skin. The cheer in her voice was forced, phony like someone was holding a gun to her head and telling her to make nice for the person on the other end of the line. The lie about heading home for the night slipped so easily from her mouth, he’s almost curious about what she’s actually doing. Frank scoots away from her, adjusting the wide legged position he’d taken before she’d arrived. It’s not much space, but at least he isn’t pushing her up against the armrest like before.

The train ride is endless, tired commuters ignoring each other in favor of books and phones, the only sound comes from the clacking of the wheels against the tracks. Stop after stop comes and goes and still the blonde woman stays seated next to him, shoulders slumping down noticeably with each stop. Eventually the car is nearly empty, three other commuters silently staring out the windows as the city passes completely from view.

He expects her to get up, find an empty bench to spread out on, but she doesn’t. From the corner of his eye he can see her head jerk down for a split second before she catches it and looks back up, blinking slowly. It’s not safe for a woman to sleep on a train, especially not one as beautiful as this. He frowns into the cup of cold coffee as he takes one last sip.

When she drops off the next time, he scoots a little closer, letting the side of his arm bump up against her. When her head slips down on his shoulder, it’s impossibly soft, the scent of flowers catching him off guard for the second time. She’s warm against him, a flutter of possibility catching in his chest like some long forgotten and unwanted emotion. Just as he’s about to push her off, maybe clear his throat loudly and glare down at her, she sighs. The muted sound whispers against the ear turned toward her. He freezes. What could it hurt to wait until the next stop?

Settling in, he closes his own eyes, the almost forgotten memory of sunshine and laughter making it’s way once again into his barely beating heart.


	2. "Coffee" for two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always in front of me in line for the coffee shop with a ridiculous order that takes forever to make AU

Karen’s favorite time of day is early morning. She loves it when the sun is barely peaking over the horizon, the buildings still casting long shadows over everything, a hazy orange glow lighting all the windows on fire. And her favorite place to be while all this is going on is the coffee shop just down the street from her apartment. She always goes early, to sit at one of the three little tables looking out across the street sipping her flavored coffee.

She’s always the first one through the doors, smiling sweetly at the young girl setting fresh flowers on the tables. They have an unspoken agreement, Karen shows up with fresh bagels for both of them, and Cassandra gets to work making Karen’s unnecessarily complicated morning brew. There’s something immensely satisfying about getting the first poured cup of coffee in the morning. She feels like a conqueror, staking her claim.

It isn’t unusual for Karen to sit in silence, sipping her coffee for a good twenty minutes before the next patron comes shuffling in, usually with their head down, in painful need of caffeine. This morning it’s different though, she barely has time to set the warm bagels down on the counter before the tinkling of the bells over the doors catches her ears.

The man stops short, staring at her as though he’s surprised he’s not alone. She’s staring right back, lips slightly parted, her greeting fleeing at the sight of him. She’s never used the word ‘glowering’ before to describe someone, but this man, dressed in all black and staring her down is doing that very thing. A little frisson of fear zips through her, but before she can shrink away from him, he nods. “Ma’am.”

It’s a concession. She was here first, and he’s going to politely wait behind her. The single word brings her fear to a grinding halt, curiosity stumbling over itself to replace the feeling. The whisper of a paper bag sliding across the counter breaks the trance she’s under. Cassandra is already biting into the chewy sourdough, smiling happily. “The usual?”

Karen nods as she turns away from the forbidding man, her words still failing her. Turning away does nothing really, she can still feel the intensity of his stare. She immediately wishes she’d changed her morning order, opting instead of something quick and easy, like a small coffee with sugar and cream. Not the espresso with delicately frothed milk and two different kinds of syrup, one to begin and one to finish it off. She certainly wishes she could find her voice to tell Cassandra to forgo the tiny dollop of freshly whipped cream before she crams the lid down over the paper cup.

It’s never taken this long, has it? The seconds tick by more slowly than Karen ever thought possible. All the while, she can feel him staring, too afraid to look. The man must think she’s ridiculous, heaping sugar and cream and milk and everything else under the sun on top of her delicately brewed coffee. He’s probably the kind of man who likes his black, the kind of man who drinks gallons of the stuff without blinking. He has the look of someone who doesn’t sleep a lot, relying on coffee for quick bursts of energy in between whatever it is he does.

Finally, after an eon of waiting, Cassandra sets the cup down on the counter and Karen digs frantically in her purse to pay. There will be no sitting and people watching today. No, as soon as she pays for the coffee, she’s going to dart out into the street so the silent man can order his simple coffee and make some snide comment. She slaps a couple bills down on the counter, smiling brightly at the barista. “Keep the change.”

She whirls, heels clacking against the tile as she makes a dash for the door. She’s almost made her escape when she hears it again, the gravelly voice that is somehow reassuring and intimidating at the same time. “Ma’am?”

He’s at her elbow, a little twitch pulling up at the corner of his mouth. Now that he’s close, she can see he has deep brown eyes, ones that go soft when begins to smile. Her heart does a little flip, and she stares at him open mouthed.

He laughs at her, a small sound escaping this giant man. “You forgot, your uh…” He gestures to the paper cup in his hand. “… well I hate to call it coffee, but I suppose that’s what it is.”

She blushes, reaching out to take it from him. “It certainly is.” It’s a declaration, a way for her to regain her composure, to deny the way his rough voice sends a shiver up her spine.

He nods, conceding her point. “I see. Maybe I’ll try it like that sometime.”  
She straightens her shoulders, looking him straight in the eye. She’s never been ashamed of her height, but at this very moment she’s particularly happy for it. Smiling back at him, she says, “You should, Mr….” She trails off, realizing she doesn’t even know who he is.

“It’s Frank.”

She says the name back softly, and he smiles, ducking back into the shop. Watching for a minute, she only turns away when she sees Cassandra begin to froth new milk. Karen can’t help the secret smile she wears the rest of the morning, the name Frank just on the tip of her tongue.


	3. Running In the Dark

**“That is a hideous shirt you should totally just take it off” au**  


The sound of running footsteps echoes in the dark alley. Karen thinks maybe her heart is gonna beat out of her chest, lungs burning as she draws in ragged breaths. She promises herself when this is all over she’s going to put that dusty gym membership to good use.

Frank is hot on her heels as they round the corner. Skidding on the damp bricks, he looks back behind them to make sure their pursuers don’t get any ideas about getting too close. Her heart thunders in her chest at the sound of a single gunshot, throwing her hands up over her ears in preparation for more.

They don’t come, and instead Frank picks up the pace, hooking his free arm under hers and dragging her along. He tosses the jammed rifle into a nearby dumpster careening out of the dark alley at breakneck speed. His eyes pan up and down the street looking for some kind of safe haven. There’s a smokey bar on the corner, red neon lights glowing in the damp air.

He turns, pulling her along again, but she digs in her heels, and he doesn’t have time to argue with her in the street. Instead he pulls her into the shelter of an unlit stoop, growling at her through barred teeth. “What!”

“Damn it, Frank, you can’t go in there like that!” She gestures at him, vaguely encompassing his appearance top to bottom. She’s feeling a little frantic now, the adrenaline pumping through her veins making her hands shake. Her voice gets a little shrill as she struggles to whisper. “That stupid skull on your shirt is like a neon sign flashing ‘Here comes the punisher, unarmed and looking for a fight’. Take it off!”

Her trembling fingers are already tugging at the hem, trying to drag the ridiculous thing up over his head. She’s on the verge of hysteria, glancing over her shoulder before turning back to angrily yank at the material. Frank stills her hands, wrapping his long fingers around her wrists. Leaning down to whisper in her ear, he says, “And what exactly does walking shirtless into a biker bar scream?”

“Take it off, Frank!”

Her eyes are wild and for the first time in years he doesn’t know how to respond appropriately to the situation. Reflexively her grabs the hem and jerks the article of clothing up over his head. “Now what?”

Snatching the black fabric from his hands she swiftly turns it inside out jamming it back down over his damp hair, fingers skimming the taut lines of his shoulders as he threads his arms back through the sleeves.

The sound of running once again catches their ears. Frank tenses, reaching for a weapon he doesn’t have. “Fuck–”

The softly exhaled curse is cut short, Karen’s lips crashing down on his, her surprisingly strong arms wrapping around his neck as she leans into him. She lets go briefly to hiss at him. “Pretend we’re kissing! There’s no way they’ll stop for a couple of drunks making out in the dark.”

With no time to argue or formulate another plan, he wraps his arms around her, tucking her into the corner of the doorway. One knee notches between her thighs, pinning her against leaded panes. His lips find her neck, nose nuzzling the column of her throat as he drops little kisses on the soft skin. For the briefest of moments he forgets their lives are in peril, that this is all just a ruse.

Karen clutches at him, playing the part of wanton seductress rather convincingly, an involuntary sigh rolling through her and tumbling out of her lips. Fingers dive into his hair, tugging him away from the attention he’s paying her collar bone.

Staring into his eyes, she can see the lust glazing them over, and it takes all she has in her to breathe deeply and look away. “They ran right by.”

He nods, breath still a little harsh. He stays entwined with her half a beat longer than necessary, reluctantly pulling away and stomping down the steps. “Come on, we have to get far away from here, and quick.”

She runs after him to keep up with his wide strides. “Frank?”  
T  
hey duck into another alley, this time looking for a fire escape to shimmy up. “What?”

“Who the hell thinks a giant skull painted across their chest is inconspicuous?”

Yanking down a set of iron steps, he fights the twitching at the corner of his mouth before answering. His voice lower than normal, growling at her for the second time in less than twenty minutes. “It’s supposed to strike fear in the hearts of evil-do–”

Ignoring the little thrill of desire the sound causes, she waves him off, smiling to herself. “Yeah yeah… I’m just saying you can’t make fun of Daredevil’s little red outfit anymore. Pot and kettle, et cetera.”

He laughs, gesturing for her to precede him up the steps. When she’s concentrating on finding her footing he finally lets the smile spread across his face. “Yeah okay, but Red doesn’t get a pass for the horns.” 

_Feel free to drop prompts in my comments or in my[Ask Box](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/ask) on tumblr_


	4. A Warm Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the prompt an anon sent me: What happens when Frank (natural dog person) discovers Karen is a cat person?

Frank isn’t there when she brings the kitten home, making it a warm little place to stay in a shoebox at the end of their bed. His dog sniffs at it suspiciously before curling up next to the box. She wouldn’t have brought it home without talking to him about it… normally. But the poor little creature had been crying forlornly, it’s little paw stuck in the grate of a storm drain, no mother in sight.

When Frank walks through the door that night, he immediately knows something is different. Gunner doesn’t run excitedly to greet him. He’s gotten used to the dog’s affection, has come to expect it even. So when the sweet natured pit bull stays quietly curled at the foot of Karen’s bed, his chest gets tight with worry.

He walks quietly over to the bed, heart beating in his throat as he pulls the covers away from Karen’s face. She’s curled up in the middle of the mattress, snoring softly like she does when she’s dead tired. Relief floods him, and he moves to investigate the little box Gunner is curled around.

He hears it before he sees it, the tiny and soft mewling noise. The kitten is trying it’s best to climb up out of the box, falling back in frustration every couple seconds. It’s so fragile in his hands, the tiny beating heart fluttering like a humming bird’s wings when he picks it up. It feels too delicate to be real. He’s never been much of a cat person, always preferring the easy affection of dogs over the seemingly standoffish behavior of felines.

He’s looking at the creature with a perplexed expression, eyes narrowed in thought, when Karen sits up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She sighs, “You’re home.” Her blurry-eyed smile freezes when she sees what he’s holding and the frown pulling down at the corners of his mouth. “It’s just temporary. I promise. I’ll start looking for someone who wants a kitten tomorrow.”

Wordlessly, Frank makes his way around the bed, gently setting the kitten in Karen’s lap before walking away. He ducks into her little kitchen, pulling things from the cabinets, running water at the sink. She doesn’t ask what he’s doing, but watches curiously as he darts around her apartment, slipping into her bathroom quickly before coming over to her.

He’s got a cup of condensed milk dissolved in warm water in one hand and an eyedropper in the other. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he carefully measures out an eyedropper-full of the concoction, picking up the kitten again. The frantically high pitched meowing finally stops. “She’s hungry.” He’s quiet for a minute, filling the dropper a couple more times before turning to look at her. “Frank Jr. once found a bag of kittens some asshole had tried to drown in a pond. They were all wet and skinny. We had to bottle feed them for weeks. There were seven of them. Lisa named them after the dwarves in Snow White.” He doesn’t talk about his family much anymore. That chapter of his life is closed, because it’s so often painful, happy memories like this often too hard to access.

Karen watches the little thing lap at the droplets of milk, it’s tiny paws clinging to the to the front  of Frank’s shirt. A small smile twitches at the corners of her mouth. “You know, Frank. It doesn’t  _have_ to be temporary.”

He nods, moving to put the kitten back in her little box, watching as Gunner settles around it once again. It doesn’t take long for him to undress, to slip quietly into the warm bed with Karen. His arms are around her, nose buried in her soft blonde hair, when he murmurs, “She needs to see a vet.”

Karen sighs back, “Mmm hmm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come fine me on tumblr at http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/


	5. A Haunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I moved into the apartment next door and it’s 100% haunted please let me crash here for the night” au

Frank was cleaning his rifle when he heard it, a blood curdling scream coming from just down the hall. He knew exactly who it was. He’d seen her hauling her things up the stairs the day before, box after box of God knew what, accompanied by her slightly shorter, slightly softer boyfriend. Frank had wondered what the milk-toast couple had been doing moving into such a sketchy part of town. But hey, the economy was shit and who was he to judge?

A second scream echoed through the hall, followed by a loud crash. Frank frowned. One scream indicated that she'd perhaps seen one of the building’s larger vermin scuttling along the fire escape, but two in a row gave him pause. He hadn't pegged the moon-faced man in the stairwell for an abusive asshole. The guy was clearly head over heels in love with the graceful woman, but Frank had seen obsession and jealousy motivate the most friendly looking men to do awful things.

He snapped the rifle’s parts back together, setting the thing aside in favor of a pistol. He shoved the weapon into the holster under his jacket and and ventured out into the hall, senses primed to detect signs of a domestic scuffle.

The sound of the chain slipping out of its slide caught his ear, followed quickly by two sets of tumblers flipping in the dead bolts. One of his eyebrows shot up. She must have had a locksmith here earlier, reinforcing the flimsy security. He was impressed, but it had nothing on his own adjustments, the reinforced steel door to his apartment something straight out of Fort Knox.

She flew out into the hall, eyes wide with panic, looking over her shoulder as she ran. Frank didn't even have time to move out of her way, catching her in a surprised embrace. They nearly tumbled to the floor, but Frank used their momentum to spin around, finding his footing again.

She panted against him, slender fingers finding purchase on his shoulders. He was surprised by the strength, grunting in discomfort as she dug into his muscles. Eyes wide, she stared at him. “Thank God.”

His ever-present frown deepened. This wasn’t how beautiful women with delicate constitutions were supposed to respond to him. He still had a black eye from his last encounter with thugs, and to be honest he should have probably shaved days ago. He was the punisher, a man who set scumbags to quivering in their boots, a man that women crossed the street to avoid running into.

She let go of him abruptly, snatching her hands back in embarrassment. She was a bit sheepish, but her fear still had a good hold on her common sense. She darted around him, her bare feet slipping against the painted concrete of the floor. Only when she’d positioned Frank between herself and the door did she let out a little sigh of relief.

He squinted in the dim light of the hallway, wondering if he should slip his hand under his jacket. “What the hell’s going on lady?”

She shook her head, not looking at him. “This is so stupid…” Trailing off, she covered her face with her hands, trying to hide the obvious blush creeping across her cheeks. “I think my apartment is haunted.”

Frank should have been pissed, he should have muttered something acidic and stomped back to his apartment, slamming the door behind him. Instead, one corner of his mouth ticked up, the beginnings of a lopsided smile forming on his face. He laughed. “Who you gonna call?”

“Ha, ha, very funny.” She crossed her arms angrily. “There  is a ghost in there!”

Frank was genuinely amused now, crossing his own arms to mirror her stance. “You sure it isn't just your boyfriend?”

“My what?”

“Short guy, about yay high…” Frank held out his hand to indicate a man of shorter statute, giving the woman a little smirk. “...all goo-goo eyed over you. You know, your boyfriend.”

“Foggy?!” She looked incredulous, eyes wide with shock, completely forgetting about her former terror. “He is  not  my boyfriend.”

Frank nodded, disproportionately pleased by this information. He gave her a knowing look, snidely commenting, “He does look like the type to get wrangled into moving boxes for a pretty girl.”

“He's my friend. Friends do stuff --” She stopped short, shaking her head. “Look  that  doesn't matter. All that's important right now is that there's a poltergeist in my apartment knocking shit off the counters and opening and closing cabinets. I need somewhere to stay for the night.”

He shook his head, but before she could make her case again, a loud crash came from her apartment. For a brief second she looked panic, visibly jumping and twisting around to look back down the hall. Frank softened. Clearly she was on edge for other reasons. “I don’t even know your name.”

Tentatively she turned around, giving him a somewhat hopeful look. “It’s Karen… and you?”

“Frank.” He hasn’t said his name in so long, that it feels like a foreign object coming out of his mouth.

“Frank… that suits you.” 

The name echoing from her lips took him by surprise, a falling sensation surrounding him. He pushed it away, hard, steeling himself against the onslaught of nostalgia and memories. He sighed, “Fine,  one night, that’s it.”

A grin spread  across her face, and she lunged forward, hugging him tightly. The gun holster under his right arm was probably jabbing her in the side, but she didn’t seem to care, giving him one last squeeze before scurrying down the hall to his door.

He called out after her. “Hey, I know there's a ghost in there, but the undead aren't gonna keep crackheads from stealing your TV.”

Biting her bottom lip, she reached down and drew a key from around her neck, tossing it down the hall. “Will you--”

He cut her off, barking in her direction. “No problem!”

He was right about the door, new dead bolts and a reinforced frame. This wasn't blondie’s first rodeo. His curiosity was piqued. He glanced inside the apartment, scanning her belongings quickly. Fairly standard furnishings, a small couch, a twin bed tucked into one corner, shelves lined with books. If she had anything to hide she'd already tucked it away.

He locked the door behind him, fingering the silk ribbon looped through the top of the key. It was so strangely feminine that it caught him off guard. It suddenly struck him that a tall and gracefully beautiful woman would be spending the night with him. It wasn't a scenario he had contemplated in a very long time, and it was the first thing in years that sent a real shiver of worry through him.

He looked up go see her leaning on his door, exhaustion written in the lines of her face, a curtain of blonde hair swept over her shoulder. Her flower print pajamas covered her up from her ankles to her neck. He hadn't even known they made pajamas like that in adult sizes. He relaxed. This would be fine. He would even wait to tell her tomorrow that she should go buy some rat poison for the mutant rodent traipsing around her kitchen.

_Come visit me on[tumblr ](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com) if you like. My [ask box ](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/ask) is always open!_


	6. Sleepless in Hell's Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Neighbour who’s way too enthusiastic about LOTR soundtracks" AU

She doesn't say anything the first time it happens. It's the middle of the day after all, and people have the right to make a little noise. The swelling crescendo of strings and crashing of cymbals isn't exactly something she can blot out with a pillow over her head, but she tries, if only for the sake of being an understanding neighbor. He couldn't possibly know that she's been working nights and needs mid-afternoon to sleep.

He lives one door down. Mr. F. Castle, if the tag on his buzzer is to be believed. They pass in the hall sometimes when she's heading out for the night shift at Rose’s diner. He seems nice enough, unsmiling as he is. He's even held the door for her once or twice when her arms are loaded down with groceries. So when she's jerked out of sleep a second time she simply uses a pair of foam earplugs to block out the noise. But the plugs cause her to miss the incessant beeping of her alarm, and she can't help but shoot him a withering glare as she dashes past him in the hall that night.

Her eyes widen when the man has the nerve to smile at the way she rushes by. She spends her entire shift at the diner that night pouring coffee for red-eyed patrons and muttering under her breath. She has an entire speech ready for him by the time she's finished, one filled with information about proper listening decibels and the way sound passes through thin walls, and the effects lack of sleep can have on the sanity of a woman.

By the time she trudges back to her building the sun is just rising to the east, exhaustion settling over her like a heavy blanket. She walks straight to her door without a thought, falling like a sack of potatoes on her bed.

A few hours later, when she is so rudely jerked from her slumber, it's the final straw. This time it's the brass section of a fairly large orchestra blowing their lungs out in an attempt to wake up the entire neighborhood. The sound sets her nerves on edge, and she springs out of bed without a thought. Who the _hell_ does this man think he is? Why hasn't anyone else in the building complained?

Instead of stomping down the hall and beating down his door, Karen starts digging through one of her many unpacked boxes, a little grunt of satisfaction escaping her when she finds what she's looking for. She puts on her most confident air, head held night, hair swept back from her face, and walks calmly to her neighbor’s door.

She knocks, like a professional door to door salesman, rapping her knuckles against the wood in sharp even taps. There's no answer, the sound of the dramatic music drowning out her racket. Frowning, she balls her free hand up into a fist and thumps on the door as hard as she can, kinetic energy reverberating through her bones.

The music stops, and a little thrill of anticipation zips through Karen. She feels borderline delirious, lack of sleep sending a weird adrenaline through her veins to compensate for how tired she is.

The door eases open a few inches, just enough to present to her a familiar glare. “What.”

The way he says the word brooks no invitation to answer. It's a flat and annoyed statement. Karen steels herself. Holding up a pair of noise canceling headphones between them like a shield, she says, “Mr. Caslte--”

“Frank.”

Ignoring him, she continues, “I need to sleep. Listen to your stupid phantom of the opera shit on these.”

The door creaks open a little further. The man's expression changing somewhat. He cocks his head as if he's trying to figure her out, glancing back and forth between the headphones and the stern look on her face. “It's a soundtrack. You know, _Lord of the Rings_.”

Karen blinks. She'd fully expected him to slam the door in her face, to tell her to fuck off. He is certainly intimidating enough to get his way, a giant bruise on one side of his face, a slowly healing cut on the other. Her lips are parted, a question on the tip of her tongue, her fingers itching to reach forward and trace the purple mark on his cheekbone.

The sound of something crashing into the floor snaps her out of her trance. Frank’s head snaps around, a soft curse tumbling from his lips. He dives back into the apartment, leaving Karen to stare in shock at the scene before her.

There's a man tied to a chair, gagged and bloodied. The chair is what made the noise, one leg snapping as the prisoner tried to topple the thing over.

Karen steps forward, peering at the man as Frank re-secures his bindings. “I know you! You're the asshole that snatched my bag last week.”

Frank grunts. “You're lucky that's all he did. Purse snatchin’s one of his more harmless pastimes.”

Suddenly it dawns on Karen, the reason for the loud music. If the mottled pattern of bruises on the criminal’s face is any indication, he's been here for a while. She looks a Frank, more than a little alarmed. “Are you…”

“It's taken three days, but I'm finally done with him. Bastard’s been keeping three women locked up in a loft downtown. He just gave me the address.”

Frank gives the man one last punch, knocking him out. He looks back at Karen, slowly unwrapping the cloth from his knuckles. “You can keep your headphones. I'll find somewhere else to do this kind of thing in the future.”

She's speechless, torn between the urge to run to the nearest police station and the urge to give the unconscious man one last kick in the nuts for stealing her purse. She compromises, looking Frank square in the eyes. “Thank you. When you’re done you should come down to Rosie’s. Coffee’s on me.”


	7. A Girl Can Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’ve never actually talked to you but i had a dream we were in a relationship and now i have a crush on you" AU

Karen woke with a thundering heart, breath short and thready. The faintly pulsing desire between her legs the only remnant of the dark images that had been flashing before her eyes. She could still feel the tingling scrape of his stubble against her inner thigh, the stomach clenching waves of pleasure that her dream-self had been writhing under. She dropped her hand down to see if there were any indication that it had been real. It was a dream, an absurdly tangible and amazing dream.

She closed her eyes, willing her body to fall back into morpheus's embrace. She was close enough, she could easily slip back across the border into dreamland and finish what had only just begun with… Her eyes flew open.  _Shit_.

The dark eyes and glowering expression of her dream-lover were all too familiar.  _He's a client._  Karen repeated the statement like a mantra, over and over.  _He's a client_. Someone who  _allegedly_  used his fists to beat someone else into a bloody pulp. He'd only been to  _Nelson and Murdock_  a few times, so emphatically taciturn that Matt was only able to get a few words pried loose.

There was something about him though, the way he stepped aside politely when she walked through the office, the way he nodded in recognition when their eyes met. Surely Matt wouldn't have taken him on as a client if he were actually dangerous.

She pushed the dark man out of her mind, getting up to get ready for the day.

As soon as she walked into the office, she knew he was there, sitting with his arms crossed in front of Matt's desk, giving the lawyer a death stare. His gravelly voice carried through the paper thin walls. "That's bullshit, Murdock."

She wasn't helping with his case, so it shouldn't matter what he's done, but Karen couldn't help but position herself strategically close to Matt's door, cocking her head to the side as she pretended to read a file. She wasn't the most surreptitious eavesdropper, leaning a little too close to the open doorway.

She heard Matt sigh, something that happened fairly often these days. "Look Frank, this is what you have to do if you don't want to end up behind bars. We might even get him to drop the charges if you will just tell me  _why_  you felt the need to bash his head into a telephone pole."

Frank shifted in his seat, laughing bitterly. "Blondie, can you believe this shit?"

Karen blinked, looking up dazed from the blank sheet of paper she was perusing. "What? Believe what?"

Frank gestured to the papers on Matt's desk. "This bullshit. This asshole was running a dogfighting ring out of their basement, tossing the dead animals like trash into the east river, and  _he's_ pressing charges against  _me._ " He shook his head. "Bullshit."

Looking up was a mistake, now she could see the curve of his lip, the lopsided smile something straight out of her dream this morning. And he had a dark shadow of stubble too... She swallowed, the heat of an all over blush beginning to creep across her body, finally making it's way to the creamy column of her throat.

Matt shifted in his seat, turning his attention to her, brow furrowed in concentration. "Karen, is something wrong?"

She let out the breath she'd been holding, fighting hard to control the erratic pitter patter of her heart. "I'm fine." She turned toward frank. "And uh, yeah that's sounds like a whole lotta bullshit, but unless you want to spend a couple months rotting in jail for assault, you'll probably want to do what Matt says."

Frank looked at her, narrowing his eyes slightly as he assessed her. "Find, Murdock, whatever the fuck you say."

As soon as Frank looked away, Karen darted back out of the doorway, fingers trembling as she put away the fake file. Yanking her jacket off the coat hook, she slipped out into the hallway. She had to get away from the man, lighting up like the neon sign at  _Josie's_  whenever he glanced at her. She closed her eyes, willing away the inappropriate images. Now they were interspersed with the way his eyes looked when he was amused, and the way one side of his mouth ticked up first when he went to smile.  _Get yourself together, Page. It was just a dream._

"So, you want to grab coffee or something?"

She jumped, eyes flying open. He was standing one step above her, looking like some villain in a superhero movie. It would be so easy to feel intimidated by this man, but there was something about the amused smile he was trying to hide that brushed all of that away. She bit her bottom lip, quelling the desire drawing her towards this man. She should say no. It wouldn't be appropriate.  _He is a client!_

Dashing away the thought, she smiled. It's not like they  _had_ to fall into bed after drinking coffee, although the prospect was definitely tempting. "Sure, coffee sounds nice."

"There's a great place just around the corner."

They fell in step easily, Frank's hand instinctively moving to the small of her back. She could feel the heat of his touch through her thin jacket. She smiled. Coffee could easily turn into dinner, and dinner into other things. A girl could dream.


	8. Mistakes Were Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from a tumblr sentence prompt: Kastle "mistakes were made"

Sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, landing muted on Karen’s flower print coverlet. She groaned, unwilling to open her eyes to the new day. Hangover’s were a bitch, and something she’d had relatively little experience with since leaving home. Her first foray into being a free-spirit in college was not turning out the way she’d expected. She could definitely cross open-door dorm parties off her list of things that seemed like fun.  


Blindly, she reached out to grab one of her extra pillows. All she needed to do was bury herself deep in the bed and pretend she was dead for a couple more hours, then she could wander down the street and find something greasy and salty to satisfy her depleted energy stores. 

Her hand landed on something warm, but definitely not soft. In fact it was rather scratchy, her fingers tickling as she cautiously explored the texture. She jerked her hand away in surprise when a hot gust of air blew out against her knuckles.

She opened one eye at a time, fearful of what she might see. There was a man, topless and presumably also bottomless, wrapped in her favorite yellow sheet, snoring softly in the morning light. Her eyes widened further, memories from the night before falling on top of her like an avalanche. She peaked under her blanket to confirm the veracity of her memory. Yup, naked as a newborn child, the tender flesh around her breasts rosy where the man had brushed his shadowed jaw against her.

She blushed, feeling the heat of it through her whole body. She tried to slip out of the little bed, grunting in her effort to pull the cover out from under him. He was massive, stretching the length of her bed. The entire left side of his well-muscled body had her penned in, effectively turning her blanket into a cocoon-like prison.

She poked at him and he opened one eye. “Trying to escape?”

“What?” She looked down at him. With his eyes open she could tell how handsome he really was, softness in the brown depths that somehow made his entire demeanor seem just a little more approachable. “Should I be…” She trailed off, realizing she didn’t even remember his name. 

Smirking, he filled the blank. “It’s Frank.”

“Well, Frank? Should I be trying to escape?”

He laughed, the sound of it like the low rumble of thunder. “As far as I can tell, there’s a guy down the hall who probably wants to press charges against Ms. Karen Page, so it might be better if you stayed holed up for a few more hours.”

“How do you know my full name?”

“You were yelling, ‘No one messes with Karen Page!’ as you walloped the poor kid.”

She groaned, the memory of Frank grabbing her around the waist and dragging her away from the cowering form of her next door neighbor was something she happily would have forgotten. “Oh my god, why did I attack Tommy?”

Frank adjusted the pillow behind his head, bare arms flexing in a distracting manner. Karen had the strangest urge to curl into him, rest her head on his exposed chest while he relayed the events from the previous night. Instead she thumped her skull against the headboard, a bit of self-flagellation for her behavior the night before.

Again Frank laughed, this time reaching out to trace the line of her knee through the comforter. “I can’t be sure, but I’ve come to believe you thought he’d been stealing your mail, and when you confronted him about it he called you…” Frank trailed off. “Well it’s not the kind of language one uses in front of a lady. As far as I can tell, you reacted accordingly.”

A flash of heat zipped through her at the memory, the sniveling little face of her sexist pig of a neighbor flashing before her eyes. She’d suspected the little weasel for weeks but hadn’t had any proof. It looked like ‘forty proof’ was all she needed, the inhibition freeing qualities of alcohol coursing through her veins. 

Frank continued. “You got a few licks in, before I dragged you off. Figured it would be best to get you away from the party for a while. So…”

Suddenly all the embarrassment fell away, memories of her little altercation in the hall paling in comparison to the activities she’d gotten up to here in the dark. Her heart picked up its pace a little, fluttering at the the memory of jumping all over Frank once the door had closed. At first she’d been angry, but there had been something about the soft way he’d spoken to her, the way he’d promised that if things were still salty in the light of day, he’d make sure she got her justice. A switch had flipped inside of her, and it was all she could do to keep her hands off of him.

She’d practically torn his clothes off, her own wrinkled dress joining them in a heap on the floor. She’d rarely been the aggressor in matters like this, but last night she’d relished taking control, climbing on top of him like a wanton wild woman. And God, he’d been something to look at, the planes of his chest like granite compared to her soft high school boyfriend.

Her hands were covering her face. She couldn’t look at him, not after the things she’d said in the heat of the moment, the raw need that had eked its way from her lips. “Oh my god, last night… I am so sorry, I’m not normally so..”

She felt the bed shift as he sat up, his fingers gently encircling her wrists to pull her hands away from her face. “Shh… No, Karen. Sure, mistakes were made last night.” He grinned at her. “I think maybe your mail has actually been falling behind the mailboxes.”

Her lips twitched, but held back the grin, waiting with some trepidation to hear the rest of his statement.

“We both probably could have done without that last shot of vodka, but _this_ ,” he gestured between the two of them, “This was not a mistake.”

There it was again, that soft reassurance. So strange coming from such a strong and intimidating guy. She did feel better, hearing that he didn’t regret what had happened last night. She squinted at him. “No?”

“No.”

She sighed. “Well in that case, do you think we can sneak out of here and get some coffee? I feel like the living dead right now.”

“Caffeine. A woman after my own heart.”  



	9. A Study in You (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU in which Frank and Karen are teachers who argue a lot and whole school ships them (you can add the rest of DD team as shippers too if you want) [this is slightly different than the prompt I received, but I hope you enjoy it!]

It would be simplest to say they had different ways of getting through to students, different ideologies when it came to teaching. It would be diplomatic to imply that they were just really passionate educators, that the arguments they got into were merely a result of wanting to help their kids. All of those things might have been true. They were true,  _damn it_ … but even Karen could admit it wasn't the whole truth.

Frank got under her skin. He  _really_ got under her skin. All it took from him were two seemingly innocuous sentences, and suddenly she was hot under the collar, her cheeks warm, eyes sparking. The teacher's lounge was his favorite sparring ground. He loved to lean his hip on the counter, a cup of freshly brewed coffee in one hand, his free thumb hooked into the belt loop of his jeans. It had to be a power pose of some kind, the way he just  _oozed_ confidence standing there like that.

This morning wasn't any different. She fought the urge to turn around and walk right back into the hallway when she saw him there. He hadn't said a word yet and she already felt her hackles rising. He had his eyes closed, taking a moment to inhale the rich aroma of the coffee before he sampled it. She watched him, awkwardly frozen in spot as he savored the hot liquid, his tongue darting out to catch a stray drop at the corner of his mouth. Karen felt a searing stab of desire shoot through her.

Snapping out of her daze, she threw up her defenses, stomping over to the counter. It was never easy with him, and this penchant she had for getting lost in her own thoughts, the places her mind went when she allowed it to contemplate the lines of his body, well, it wasn't helpful at all.

His eyes flew open at the sound of her approach. She didn't have to look up to know that there was a particularly unsettling gleam in his eye, that the corner of his mouth had already twitched up in an irritating little smirk. "You're here early, Miss Page. Trying to get a jump on those STP's? Last year was a bit of a disaster for you I hear."

She cut him an icy glance, refusing to acknowledge him until she had some caffeine. Pouring the coffee slowly, she stirred in some sugar and cream before turning to him with an icy glare. "Standardized tests are ruining the american education system. My kids were smart last year and they're smart this year. No matter what some stupid test says."

He shrugged, taking another leisurely sip from his cup. "Maybe if you'd spent more time having them do those practice exams I forwarded you, instead of talking about feelings and taking field trips to Central Park, there wouldn't have been a problem."

She ground her teeth, huffing out an angry breath through her nostrils. "I swear to god, don't mention those stupid practice tests again."

Frank set his mug down, frowning at her. "Can't argue with results."

They'd argued about it for weeks, and she'd flat out refused to have her students sit for hours answering the same questions over and over just so they would score high later. She wanted them to actually  _learn_  things, to be curious about the world around them. She didn't want little automatons who only knew a specific set of answers. She was ready to open up this argument, yet again, but Frank just sighed and dropped his shoulders.

"Listen Page, you don't realize it, but your job is on the line. I know you care about those students, but the school board only cares about results, because those results get them funding. It's  _always_ about money, babe."

She blinked. That had never happened before. He'd never backed down. In fact he always seemed to relish getting her more and more wound up, until she was red-faced and panting with her anger. On more than one occasion they'd drawn quite the crowd of onlookers before she'd slammed down her books and stomped out of the room. This was different, and she wasn't sure how to respond.

She cleared her throat. "Uh, don't call me babe."

"Did you hear anything I just said? You could lose your job." He took a deep breath, looking a little nervous for the first time since she'd known him. "I, uh, like having you here. It'd be a shame to lose a passionate teacher because of this bullshit bureaucracy."

Her eyes widened. How had she not realized how close they were standing? He was inches away from her, gazing intently at her as he waited for a response. She was looking at his lips. They were parted slightly, expectant almost, like he was waiting for her response so he could lay into her again.

"You'd miss me?" The words were out of her mouth before she had even thought them, echoing off the walls of the tiny room. As soon as she realized what she'd said, she felt the heat of a deep blush creeping up her neck. Frank's eyes flickered down to the vee of her blouse for a millisecond, and Karen nearly whimpered at the sudden urge to close the space between them.

She fought it, swallowing hard as she took a step back. "Listen, Frank…" She trailed off, realizing that she never really used his first name that much, derisively calling him Castle when she talked about him with her friends, using 'Mr. Castle' to his face. The name suited him, no beating around the bush, straight and to the point. She took a deep breath before continuing. "I know last year I was too stubborn. Believe me, Superintendent Ellison tore me a new one when those results came back. No matter what you think, I'm not an idiot, okay?"

He laughed, exasperation mixed with disbelief. "When on earth have I ever said you were an idiot? You're one of the smartest teachers in this place. And the way you connect with those kids, god, they are completely infatuated with you."

He almost sounded envious. Karen's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What? But you are constantly giving me shit for the way I teach."

He smiled at her, this time fully. It reached his eyes and stole her breath away. Holy hell this was bad. Karen involuntarily took a step toward him.

"You call it giving shit, I call it spirited debate." Frank reached up and brushed back a strand of her hair, letting his thumb trail along her cheek. "I like seeing you all riled up."

"You asshole." The insult was whispered softly, trembling as it tumbled from Karen's open mouth. Reaching forward she hooked one hand behind his neck and jerked his lips down to hers.

He tasted like the coffee he'd just drank and one of the cigarettes she knew he liked to sneak behind the gym between classes. The tiny hint of desire from earlier uncoiled in her body, twisting around in the pit of her stomach before stretching out through her limbs. She pressed up against him, whimpering at the feel of his hard body unyielding against her curves. His hands found her ass, squeezing gently as he pressed her even closer, their hips perfectly aligned. The feeling was downright sinful, and Karen forgot where she was.

Panting, Frank took control, pushing her up against the counter, one hand sliding down the length of her thigh as he prepared to lift her off the floor.

"No fucking way! I  _knew_  it!"

Karen and Frank broke apart, both looking dazed and more than a little embarrassed. A fifteen year old girl was standing in the entrance to the lounge, a huge grin splitting across her face.

Karen was the first to regain composure. "Watch your language, Ellie."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Puh-lease. Like you and Mr. Castle weren't about to get down and dirty." She popped the gum she was chewing, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Matthew owes me ten bucks. I  _told_  him one of you would  _finally_  make a move."

And with that she darted back down the hall, fingers flying as she texted her best friend. Karen dropped her face down into her hands. "Oh my god, this is awful."

Frank simply shrugged. "You didn't know there was a betting pool? I had you down to make the first move next week. It's a shame too, because it was ten to one odds."

"What?" She nearly shouted the question at him, eyes bugging.

He reached forward and pulled her back to him, kissing her gently this time. "Karen. I'm kidding." He mumbled the words against her lips, brushing soothing circles against her back.

The ten minute warning bell rang. Karen regretfully pulled away from him, straightening her blouse and donning her most teacherly voice. "Mr. Castle, this is a highly inappropriate place to engage in such… activities. I think we need to meet somewhere after hours to discuss this... incident."

She flashed a sidelong glance at him before turning to slip out the door. He called out after her. "Josie's at six?"

She shook her head. "My place, five o'clock sharp. Don't be tardy."

And with that she was gone, leaving Frank to spend the next ten minutes diligently thinking about baseball and the mole on his brother's ass. Anything so that he wouldn't walk into his first period History class in an embarrassing physical state. Five o'clock couldn't come soon enough.

_Feel free to drop any and all prompts in my[ask box](http://thekastlediaries.com/ask) on tumblr if you like. I really love doing them._


	10. Clouds in my Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How about an au where they are neighbors and one of them can hear the other (Frank, for obvious reasons) every single morning singing in the shower?

At the end of a stressful day, there’s nothing Karen likes more than turning her water up as hot as it will go and standing under the stinging waterfall until she’s as limp as a noodle. Sometimes she stands there so long, humming softly to herself, that her pathetic little water heater gives up the fight, her makeshift sauna quickly transforming into the arctic tundra. Today is no different. The stress of constantly having her guard up at a job she hates is giving her a tension headache. The pain starts at her temples and tugs mercilessly at the perpetual smile she forces herself to wear. Her tiny little bathroom is calling out her name before she even steps into her apartment.

It takes blessed little time for the water to heat up, the close space filling with steam almost immediately. She slips into the relaxing warmth and sighs in relief as the liquid rushes around her. Breathing in deeply, she takes the soothing steam into her body. She’s just started soaping her hair when she hears it, the faintly muffled sound of her neighbor talking. She cocks her head the the side, curiosity getting the better of her. 

If he’s talking, it’s only to himself, because the cadence doesn’t allow for a second speaker. His low tone too far away for her to make out. She closes her eyes, wondering if perhaps she can channel some of Matt’s ability, and focuses on the sounds. She’s practically got her ear pressed up against the warm tiles before she realizes he’s singing, and not quietly either, belting out the words at the top of his lungs. _I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee._

She should be annoyed, her one and only moment of peace during the day ruined by some overzealous shower-singer, but she knows exactly who it is, and the image of her gruff and annoyingly taciturn neighbor belting out the words to Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain” has her stifling a giggle. She’d once asked him if he was some kind of boxer or MMA fighter, the bruises and cuts constantly decorating her face making her wonder. He’d only shrugged and said, “Something like that,” before slipping quietly out of the elevator. It’s hard to imagine the scary looking guy singing along to seventies folk-rock.

The spontaneous grin on her face freezes when she realizes the sound is getting clearer, closer. Their apartments are mirror images, thin drywall the only thing separating them. She jerks her ear away from the tiles, a blush suffusing her cheeks that has nothing to do with the heat surrounding her. She turns her attention back to the shower, pretending not to notice the sound of his water turning on.

Unsuccessfully, she tries to push the image of him in the shower out of her mind. She’s seen him many times, leaving to go work out at some hole in the wall gym. His plain cotton tee straining against his shoulders, the defined lines of his back etched into her memory as she watched him walk down the hall. She was marginally grateful that he always ignored her.

But now, it’s all she can do not to imagine the way the water runs down those same ridges. She wonders what his ritual is. He’s probably lathering up the shampoo in his hair right now, taking a little in the palm of his hand to work into that ridiculously hot chin-strap beard of his, rinsing it out and letting the foam run down his body until it pools at his feet.

Karen’s hands still, her own loofah resting uselessly against her stomach. What the hell is she doing? She shakes her head, making quick work of the shampoo still in her blonde locks. She can already feel the water losing its heat, and she curses at her stupidity. Quickly she completes her ritual, castigating herself for being such a space case. In all honestly, a cold shower is probably a good idea.

_… you probably think this song is about you…_

* * *

The next day Karen is running late for work. A night of restless sleep made her hit the snooze button one time too many and she’s practically running down the hallway, the edge of a paper cup of coffee clamped precarious between her teeth, her briefcase in one hand, her keys and purse in the other. Someone’s already in the elevator, and she can see the doors beginning to slide shut.  
The last thing she wants to do is wait for the cantankerous thing to make its way back up to her floor, and bounding down the stairs is not an option in her kitten heels, at least not with a hot cup of coffee. She yells out as best she can, “Ho uh ooor!” 

At the last possible second, a hand shoots out, grabbing the sliding metal door and pushing it back. It’s no easy task, the ancient thing fighting every step of the way. She slips into the elevator quickly, turning to give a grateful look to her savior. Her blue eyes widen when she sees him. Mr. You’re-So-Vain staring right back at her, a very unamused look on his face. “Running late.”

It’s a statement, gruffly made, not a question, and he doesn’t even wait for a response before he pulls a newspaper out and starts perusing it. She bristles at his behavior, setting her briefcase down in the floor so she can resituate, slinging her cross-body bag up over her head and shoving her keys down in it. She flicks her hair back over her shoulders, standing straight. Even with her low heels on, she has no trouble at all looking this grouchy man in the eye. “Yes, and thank you for holding the doors.”

“My pleasure,” he says, somehow managing to make it sound like anything but. “Ma’am.”

She frowns at his strangely peeved yet formal tone. One might think that it had been her to interrupt his moment of relaxation last night and not the other way around. Whatever. She doesn’t have room in her life for assholes.

She picks up her briefcase when the elevator dings, doors sliding open to reveal the dingy little lobby. Taking a sip of her coffee, she strides out. Something stops her though, a little imp of the mischievous making her hesitate before she leaves her neighbor in the dust. She looks back at him, smiling. “What do you think she meant by ‘clouds in your coffee?’”

He jerks his head up from wrinkled paper to look at her, an embarrassing realization dawning on him. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but she doesn’t wait for it, sashaying out of the building and into the bright morning.

* * *

At first she thinks maybe showing her hand in the elevator will make him stop his showertime performances. But she soon realizes that rather than be embarrassed, he’s fully embraced the idea that she can hear him.

He seems to prefer upbeat seventies rock, sometimes even turning up his ipod for accompaniment during the more rollicking numbers. She can’t count the number of times she’s heard the entirety of Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way” in the past two months. A little unexplained thrill of pleasure shooting through her every time when she hears the first line. _Loving you isn’t the right thing to do._

It’s ridiculous, but she can’t help but stay long after she’s done in the shower, listening to him. It’s so strange. There’s a certain camaraderie building between them. It’s illogical, and she calls herself crazy when sees him in the hallway, no familiarity at all between them. He tends to walk on down to the end of the hall, pushing through the doors to the stairwell. He’s not taking any chances, avoiding the possibility of getting stuck in the elevator with her again. She doesn’t know whether to be insulted or complimented.

One morning she sets her alarm an hour ahead, getting up and running down the street to the nearest coffee shop to order two steaming cups of joe before rushing back to her building. She’s fairly sure of his routine, and hopes to meet him in the hall.

She has no idea what she will say, and feels like a nervous teenager on her first date as she gathers up the courage to knock on his door. He should be up by now, dressed and ready to go out and do whatever the hell it is he does until the late hours.

His door swings open just as she raises her hand to knock, leaving her with one awkwardly raised hand and two cups of coffee cradled in her other arm. She wonders if he heard her shuffling awkwardly out in the hall, or if he was just on his way out. She swallows, about to open her mouth and tumble out the spiel she has prepared, but he interrupts her.

“Need something?”

The words on the tip of her tongue flee at the sight of him. He’s got a giant purpling bruise on the right side of his face creeping up toward his cheekbone, the skin puffy around the edges, some crooked stitches placed where the skin split from the force of the impact. She’s alarmed, her floating fingers uncurling and reaching out to touch him.

She’s surprised he doesn’t immediately recoil, and somewhere in the back of her mind there’s a part of her screaming to stop this inappropriate behavior, but she feels inexplicably close to him. Showering inches away from him every couple nights for months has burst whatever personal bubble there should be.

The skin under her fingertips is hot, inflammation tangible. She swallows. “Does it hurt?”

He takes a step back, withdrawing. “No,” he says, turning to grab his keys off the hook. He pushes out in the hallway, displacing Karen.

She shuffles back, but not quickly enough to avoid brushing up against him. He smells like sandalwood and something darkly inviting. She lets it pull her along for a moment, following him down the hall. She blinks, clearing her head. “Hey, don’t you want to know why I came by?”

“Who are you?” 

The words are a little suspicious, and Karen is taken aback somewhat. “I’m Karen, your neighbor… nice to meet you…”

“Frank.”

“Well, Frank. I thought I’d be neighborly and bring you coffee.” She holds out the cup to him.

He doesn’t say anything, but there is a curious expression on his face, and he pauses, turning to look at her her. She smiles sweetly at him, using every weapon in her arsenal of amiability to break through his defenses. Briefly she sees the same surprise in his eyes that had been there that day in the elevator. He doesn’t reach out and take it.

She nudges the cup closer. “It’s black. Clouds cost extra.”

He does take it this time, the barest twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. “She said what it meant once.”

It’s more than she’s ever heard him say, aside from belting out songs from another room, and she’s incredibly intrigued. “Well don’t leave me hanging, what does it mean?.”

“The confusing parts of life and love.” He shrugged, taking a long pull from his cup, trying to shake off the strange vulnerability. “That could be bullshit though. Some guy on a plane said it to her when he saw the clouds reflected in her cup.”

Karen smiles. “Yes, but what lovely bullshit.“


	11. Speechless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [Primarybufferpanel](http://primarybufferpanel.tumblr.com) for the lovely prompt: 
> 
> **Frank dealing with brain damage after effects - maybe sudden temporary aphasia? Karen finds him hiding on her fire escape, confused and unable to speak, and shelters him until it passes**

He should have known something was wrong when he couldn’t answer the barista’s simple question. ‘Large black coffee’ should have been on the tip of his tongue. The words had escaped him, slipping out of his grasp like the leash of an excited dog. And when he’d tried to snatch them back nothing had been there. So he just stared at her, silently struggling inside to make them come back.

So he’d patted himself down, pretending that he didn’t have his wallet. The woman had stared at him in annoyance until he turned and walked away.

This was how it had been when he’d woken in the hospital, concepts and ideas shorn away from the words that represented them. Only it had been worse, much worse. His own name had escaped him, his life, his family. Slowly it had all come back in sharp little flashes until he was full up with memories and pain.

He walked along the street, trying and failing to whisper sensical sentences under his breath. It was all nonsense, and when he looked up at the street signs to see where he was the text looked like a foreign language, The letters morphing into glyphs he didn’t recognize.

He pushed down the panic riding along the edge of his nerves, taking a deep breath. He had to get home, get out of the streets where people were beginning to look at him strangely. The words filling the air around him were beginning to lose their meaning as well, turning into a thick alphabet soup.

Then he began to notice the pain, a wave of tension pulsing across his frontal lobe. He’d ignored it for so long, a gentle ache coming and going when the weather changed. But this was different, a much larger magnitude. He nearly tripped and fell when the pain turned sharp, like a knife being driven through his gray matter. His vision blurred, an aura of fuzzy light occluding the sidewalk in front of him.

He was close now, his body instinctively pulling him toward the only safety it knew. Blindly he dragged himself up on the stoop, hands clinging desperately to the cold cement of the door facing. Another wave of debilitating pain shot through his skull, the intensity of it jerking him out of consciousness. His last thought was that of relief. Maybe it was finally over.

-

When Karen saw the man on her stoop, she was flooded with denial. She told herself it had to be one of the city’s homeless, that it couldn’t be Frank. He couldn’t be lying there helpless.

She knelt cautiously beside him, looking around to make sure no one else saw. It was early enough that not many people were put on the street, and the ones who were seemed to assume he was just a drunken vagrant.

Dipping down closer, she heard his breathing, shallow but consistent. The restriction squeezing the life out of her heart let up just a little. He was alive.

Tentatively, she dropped down on her knees, reaching forward to touch his face. There were bruises, of course, there always were, but his brow was knitted with pain, his breathing becoming something of a struggle.

His eyelids fluttered open, looking up at her through a glassy gaze. He reached for her, grabbing her shoulders and lifting himself to a sitting position. His lips parted, moving slightly as if he were talking. No sound came out, and Karen felt alarm creeping through her. “Frank? What’s wrong?”

He blinked, grunting in frustration. His jaw tensed, jaw clamping shut for a second before he tried again. “K-k…”

She swallowed her fear, putting on a facade of calm she didn’t feel. “Can you understand me? Just nod.”

He nodded, and she let out a deep breath. “Okay then. Do you think you can stand?”

He nodded again, holding her even tighter. She winced at the way his fingers dug into her arms, but ignored the pain, using all her body weight to lean back and lever him up off the steps.

She grunted from the effort, pulling him into a close embrace once they were both on their feet. “Come on, Frank. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

-

Karen whispered on the phone, looking over her shoulder to make sure Frank was still in her bathroom. “Listen, Claire, he seems fine now but… God, I was so scared. He couldn’t talk.”

“Well he’s not exactly loquacious during his best moments.”

Karen let out a brittle little laugh, her voice threatening to crumble into tears. “I know, I know… He was nearly paralyzed with pain. I thought he was having an aneurysm or something.”

Claire sighed. “You should bring your friend to the hospital. An aphasic event could be caused by a lot of different things. He needs to see a real live doctor, not talk to a nurse over the phone.”

“I can’t. He wouldn’t let me even if I could.”

Claire let out a deep sigh, exasperation coming clear through the speaker of Karen’s phone. “Okay, listen. It’s possible it was actually caused by a severe migraine.”

“A migraine?”

“Ask him about visual impairment, headache pain, sensitivity to light, et cetera. If he experienced a migraine aura … maybe that’s all it was.”

“Thank you.”

“He still needs to see a doctor.”

“I know.”

“Bye, Karen. Try to stay out of trouble.”

Karen hung up the phone, feeling somewhat relieved. Frank had made his way up to her apartment with little trouble, hissing occasionally at the sudden stabs of pain shooting through his brain. But the second he had laid down on her couch, he’d let the pain he was fighting wash over him.

He’d curled up into the fetal position, hands covering his ears, eyes squeezed shut, unable to answer her questions. Did he want water? A cool cloth? Pain medication? She had no idea. He couldn’t respond with anything other than the painfully eked out first syllable of a mystery word.

Hours went by and finally it seemed like the pain had stopped, and he’d drifted into a fitful sleep, jerking awake every ten minutes or so. Finally she’d sunk down beside him, pulling his head into her lap, imploring him to please sleep. “It’s okay, Frank. You’re safe, just sleep.”

The first word he’d said in hours had been her name, “Karen,” falling softly from his lips before he relaxed and fell unconscious.

And she’d fallen asleep too, stroking his hair gently and humming to herself, a shaky relief seeping into her.

When she woke, it was dark in her apartment and the soft weight of Frank’s weight in her lap was gone. In fact, she hadn’t even been snoozing on the couch any longer, but curled softly around the pillows on her twin bed. He must have been so gentle when he moved her, she hadn’t even stirred.

The sound of the shower running was a relief. Too many times he’d left without a word, and she wasn’t about to let him go again without giving him a good once over.

The call to Claire had been a last ditch effort at calming her anxiety. It had worked, to some degree and she had a list of questions waiting for Frank when he exited we bathroom, hair still damp, skin still glistening. Somewhere in the back of her mind she lamented the fact that he’d already donned his clothes once again.

“You’re not leaving yet. I need to make sure you’re okay.”

He froze, looking at her from across the room. “I’m fine.” He growled the words, biting them off. 

Karen refused to be intimidated, closing the space between them. “You’re not fine.” She waved away his rebuttal. “Just answer my questions and you can go.”

“Ask away.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

“No… the last time was right after…” Frank shifted uncomfortably, running his hands through his hair and sighing. “It was a long time ago.”

“I talked to a nurse and she thinks it might be caused by a migraine. Did you have an aura? Pain? Sensitivity to light?”

Surprise flits across his face, followed closely by a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. “Yea… all of that.”

“Why do you seem disappointed?”

He looked away from her, fingering the collar of the jacket in his hands. “I, uh… I thought it was something a lot worse. When the words started to go… and the pain got bad….”

“Are you kidding me? You wanted it to be something worse? Why?” Anger zipped through Karen, but she wasn’t sure exactly what it was aimed at, only that she couldn’t accept a world where Frank wasn’t the Frank she knew… she won’t accept it.

“Look, ma’am. Don’t get all self-righteous on me.” He stepped closer to her, a grimace twisting his features. “Sometimes it just seems like it would be easier that way, easier for everyone.” He cleared his throat, looking away again. This time his eyes traveled to her window, focusing on the yellow beams of light pouring through. “A moment of weakness.”

She almost didn’t hear the last words, spoken on a whisper intended for someone other than herself. Grateful that he wasn’t looking at her, she swiped at the tears pooling in the corners of her eyes and stomped toward her bag.

Rummaging through it, she snagged what she was looking for. The object was cold and chunky in her hand, a cheap burner cell. She always kept one handy to give to shady sources. Sidling up beside him, she ran the fingers of her free hand along his arm, brushing the skin of his palm before tugging at his hand.

She thrust the phone into his grasp. “Listen, if you feel this ever start to happen again, _call_ me. I’ll come find you.”

The tiniest ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and something let go inside of Karen, some awful dread floating away into the night. 

He pocketed the phone, donning his jacket and turning toward the door. “It won’t happen again, ma'am.”

“Frank.” That was all she could muster, just his name, in the most chastising tone possible.

“But if it does, I’ll call.”

She nodded, watching him close the door gently. For the first time in a while she actually hoped she wouldn’t hear from Frank, at least not if it meant she’d have to see him helpless and lost. 

[Drabble Tag](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/tagged/drabbles)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Again, Thank you so much for the prompt, it may be slightly different than what you asked, but writing just seems to happen that way. I hope you like it._
> 
> My [Ask Box](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for prompts.


	12. Bruised not Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Frank becomes attached to the 8 year old girl Karen babysits.

Karen had a soft spot for little girls. An ache of nostalgia and longing wrapped around her heart whenever she saw them trailing after their mothers, shining adoration painted over their innocent faces. She ached for a family that she doubted she’d ever have, for that unconditional love she missed so much.

Her own mother had been the closest thing to an angel Karen had ever known. She’d been a warm embrace on the coldest of nights, a soft kiss on scraped knees, a fierce protector standing between her children and their cold-hearted father.

Karen couldn’t help but wonder what kind of mother she might be. It was a question that crept to the forefront of her mind when things were slow, when she had time to sit down with a warm mug of tea and one of her favorite books. She’d hum the song of her mother softly, faint pictures of an imaginary family flickering just on the edges of her consciousness.

The fantasy was always shattered by the invasion of her father’s twisted grimace. It burned away all the pleasant imaginings and made her heart thump too fast. The thing that scared her most about that image was the fact that she’d seen it recently, reflected in her mirror, trembling with helpless anger and fear. It was her father looking out through her own glassy blue eyes. Logically, she knew the things that motivated her weren’t the same, but she couldn’t shake the fear that he lived inside of her.

Being a mother didn’t seem to be in the cards for her anyway, relationships crumbling like sandcastles in high tide, danger chasing her from place to place. It simultaneously pained and relieved her, conflicting desires warring constantly.

And yet, she couldn’t keep away. When Analise had knocked on her door one night, lines of exhaustion pulling at her face, Karen had agreed to watch little Dannie, the woman’s  impossibly shy eight year old.

Karen recognized them both, the little girl with her shining blonde hair and porcelain-doll skin was like looking through a portal to the past. Analise was an ER nurse and a single mother, pulling extra shifts whenever she had the chance. Karen’s heart ached when she thought of Dannie sitting alone in the apartment at the end of the hall for hours waiting for her mother to come home. New York was a city full of latch-key kids, but Karen had taken it upon herself to make sure Dannie didn’t have to be one of them.

It was easy too, Karen working from home as often as she did. These days a freelance journalist really could work from anywhere, and Karen did the bulk of her writing sitting on her living room couch, waiting till later in the evening to go out snooping. And Dannie was a quiet child, always curled up somewhere reading a book or filling the pages of a well worn sketchpad with fairies and monsters. Whenever Karen heard a tentative little knock around four p.m. she would hurriedly jump up to let the little girl in. It was like clockwork.

Except one night when it wasn’t. The scrape of tiny knuckles against Karen’s apartment door never came, and an hour later Karen was beginning to get worried. She walked down the hall to Analise’s apartment and called out. “Dannie? Are you in there? I ordered chinese.”

Karen heard the scrape of a stool on the other side of the door, and she smiled to herself, imagining Dannie climbing up on the thing to check the peephole. The child was eternally cautious. Karen posed in front of the door, making a silly face and flipping her hair over her shoulder.

The deadbolt flipped, and she heard the metallic slide of the chain, and the door swung open. “I didn’t know if you liked orange chicken or–” Karen stopped mid speech, a look of horror transforming the sunny smile she’d been wearing. “Oh my god, Dannie, what happened?”

She reached forward, gently pulling the child out into the hall where the lights were brighter. The little girl had the beginnings of a black eye, skin purpling along the edges of her eye socket, cheeks still stained with tears. The question made her lip tremble, and she had to swallow hard before answering. “Some older kids… they stole my bike.”

Relief washed over Karen, the awful images flashing through her mind evaporating. Not that being mugged by a group of ragtag kids was a good thing, but it was leagues away from the cruelty Karen’s mind had jumped to. “Oh, hon, i’m so sorry.” Gently Karen drew the girl into a hug. “Come on sweetie, let’s go look at that black eye and call your mother.”

Karen withdrew only to find Dannie staring up with wide eyes at someone behind her. She felt a little tingle at the base of her spine and knew who it was before she even turned around. He was a dark presence to anyone else, but for Karen it was different, a pool of happiness settling in the pit of her stomach whenever he deigned to appear at her door.

He was frowning down at the both of them, brow knitted in thought. “What happened?”

The question was gruff, and Karen felt Dannie tense, taking a nervous step back. The child was scared of the large and forbidding man. “It’s ok Frank, just some bullies. We’re going back to my place for some Chinese, care to join us?”

Frank nodded, wordlessly following behind the two of them.

He went straight to Karen’s freezer, pulling out her ice tray and wrapping a few cubes in a dishcloth. He knelt down in front of Dannie, approaching her slowly like a wounded animal. He held the ice up between them like an offering. “I get a lot of black eyes, this should help.” Gently, he pressed the bundle against the puffy skin, curling his fingers around her hand and pulling it up to her face. “Hold it like this.”

Dannie complied, still somewhat fearful, but relaxing her shoulders and stepping toward him. “It’s cold.”

He nodded. “Yeah, it’s supposed to be, helps the swelling go down. If it gets too cold take a break, okay?”

“Okay.”

Karen marvelled at the interaction. Frank’s voice was soft and soothing, his movements deliberate. He couldn’t have been more delicate with a piece of china. Her throat constricted painfully. He must have been a wonderful father, and this was probably hard for him.

After a minute or so he pulled back the ice pack, gently probing the skin around Dannie’s eye socket. Satisfied that there were no serious injuries, he let her put the icepack back and turned to Karen. “I hope you ordered a lot of food. I’m starving.”

-

It was strange, the three of them sitting like some dysfunctional little family at Karen’s tiny kitchen table. Two out of three diners had black eyes, and Karen was the only one that was talking, but it was still nice.

Karen noticed Dannie sneaking looks at Frank when she thought he wasn’t looking. The child was clearly intrigued. Karen smiled. She couldn’t really blame her. Finally after two or three false starts, the little girl got up the courage to say something. “Where did you get your black eye?”

At first Karen thought Frank hadn’t heard the question. He didn’t look up from his food, stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork and popping it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair to get a good look at the child. “Bullies.”

Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward in her chair. “Really? You get bullied?”

That elicited a laugh from Frank. The sound was gravelly and warm and it sent a pleasant shiver through Karen. She’d rarely heard him laugh, at least not like that. There had been more than a few bitter chuckles interspersed in their conversations, but never this spontaneous  burst of amusement.

Frank smiled down at the girl. “No, not any more, but I know a lot of people who do, so I go out and find the bullies and make them stop.”

Dannie dropped her fork on her plate, ignoring the clatter as she scooted closer to Frank. “How?”

This surprised Karen, her own mouth dropping open as she watched the formerly shy girl ply Frank ‘The Punisher’ Castle with an endless list of questions. She wanted to know if Frank beat them up, how often he did it, day or night. She wanted to know why he had a black eye too if he was the one who got the bullies to stop. Every question garnered an amused yet monosyllabic reply, which only ramped the child up more. Dannie even gathered up the courage to ask if Frank could show her how to punch someone before Karen felt the need to step in.

“Uh, Dannie, Frank’s had a busy day, maybe ease up a little.”

The mixed look of embarrassment and hurt that flashed across the girl’s face tore at Karen’s insides and she scrambled to soften her request. “I’m sure we’ll see him again tomorrow.” She turned to look across the table at Frank. “Right, Frank?”

He nodded, eyes boring into her. “I was hoping to spend the night.”

Karen’s cheeks heated up some, and she reached for her water to hide behind the glass. Taking a sip, she studied him over the rim, wondering exactly what this feeling arcing between them was.

Dannie watched the two of them, distracted from her embarrassment. “Is he your boyfriend?” The child was agape, the trauma of the day completely forgotten in lieu of something so adult and fascinating.

Karen was too flustered to answer, nearly choking on the sip of water. Frank chuckled again, looking in mock seriousness at Dannie and saying, “Miss Page doesn’t really need a boyfriend, I don’t think. She’s a pretty independent lady.”

Karen’s nostrils flared. Needs and wants were two very different things. Frank had been coming around a couple times a month for a while now, sleeping on her couch, eating her food, walking her home from work now and then. She’d stifled the urge to kiss him goodbye on more than one occasion, and had even begun to have dreams about him… It wasn’t good for her sanity.

Frank’s answer seemed to satisfy the child, and Dannie  excused herself from the table to go do her homework, leaving Karen to sit and stare across at her not-boyfriend, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “I think you made her feel better.”

He smiled, setting aside his fork and leaning back in his chair. There was something about being well-fed in a safe place that always made Frank a little more chatty. “She’s a mini-you. Little blonde firecracker, wants to go beat the hell out of the people that did her wrong.”

Karen snorted, unable to stifle the laughter. Frank had to be the only person in the world that saw her that way. Her parents thought she was meek and quiet, and Matt had seen her as someone who couldn’t protect herself. But to Frank she was a ‘firecracker.’ Suddenly it felt like she’d drank a couple glasses of wine, warmth spreading out through her body, limbs loose and tingly. “I don’t know about that.”

He smiled, dropping the subject. “That’s one hell of a shiner she got though. That couldn’t have been kids her age.”

Karen sighed. “This isn’t exactly the nicest neighborhood. I’m sure some teenagers stole it and pawned it. There’s been a lot of petty theft around here lately.”

“That’s some bullshit.”

Karen agreed, pushing herself away from the table and starting to clear away the mess. Frank gently grabbed her wrist. “I got this. You should go call her mom. “

-

The next day, before Karen’s alarm had even sounded, there came a knock at her door. An excited triple tap repeating itself before she could even get the chain off. It didn’t wake Frank, snoring softly behind her on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes.

Karen swung the door open and was greeted with a bouncing child. Glee spreading across the girl’s slightly bruised face, she blurted out, “They brought it back!”

Dannie was clinging to the pink handlebars of her bicycle, vibrating with barely contained joy, the ugly bruise on her face nothing compared to the ear to ear grin.

Analise was standing behind her daughter. “Thank you, for taking care of her last night.” She nodded toward Frank on the couch, leaning in to whisper to Karen. “I don’t know how he did it, but tell your boyfriend I appreciate him getting this back and dropping it off last night. I wouldn’t have been able to get her another one any time soon.”

 **  
** Karen blushed at Frank being called her boyfriend twice in less than twenty-four hours, but she couldn’t find the words to contradict Analise. When the door shut behind her, Frank rustled on the cushions. Karen closed the space between them, leaning against the arm of the couch. “Go ahead and pretend you’re asleep. That was a sweet thing you did Frank. Thank you.” She leaned down, finally giving into the urge to show him real affection, and pressed a soft kiss into his forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [Ask Box](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for prompts :D


	13. A Study in You (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Due to some kind encouragement, here we have a second installment of the Teachers AU. Part one is CH9**

Karen turned the page of her book, pretending not to glance at the clock. Her fingers fluttered against the smooth paper, a nervous little tick folding and unfolding the corner of the page. Ten minutes past five o’clock and she was desperately trying to convince herself that she hadn’t been stood up by a smug history teacher.

Thirty minutes past the hour and her foot began to tap on the hardwood floor, the page turns becoming a little sharp. The paper tore along the gutter halfway down the spine, eliciting a curse from Karen. She snapped the book shut and tossed it angrily on to the coffee table.

She should have known this would happen. The smug bastard would smirk at her tomorrow morning, ask her how her evening had gone. Or worse, he would make some power play, turning up hours late expecting her to fall all over him. She was angry, but that anger was fueled by embarrassment. How transparent was she? Thirsting after the big jerk like one of the hormonal teenagers she was surrounded by every day. Had he sensed it? Had it made him want to toy with her?

Six came and went, just as she’d suspected. She jumped up, blushing profusely as she caught her reflection in the mirror. The low cut of the dress she’d changed into was reflected by at her like an accusation. Jerking open drawer after drawer she looked for her ugliest baggiest sweats. They were the most comfortable things she owned, and she was determined that Frank Castle not even know what he’d missed.

Two hours later Karen was finishing off a cheap bottle of wine, using her coffee table as a foot rest, fully immersed in the last scene of Casa Blanca when she heard a knock at her door. Three raps rattling the cheap wood in its frame.

She scrambled to get up, knocking half a dozen books and a stack of ungraded papers into the floor, head swimming when she finally stood. When she looked through the peephole, a wave of heat shot through her, despite her current irritation with the man standing on the other side of the door.

She undid the chain, and swung the door open. “Just what exactly do you think--” She stopped short, mouth dropping open when she was his face, bruised and battered, blood drying on his collar. Suddenly she felt a little dizzy. “Holy shit, Frank. What happened?”

He shook his head. “Hey, I’m sorry about being so late--”

Karen cut him off, hooking her hand under his arm and dragging him into her apartment, flipping on lights as she went along. She was astonished by the sight of his face. Deep purple bruising spreading along his cheek bone, swelling puffing up the skin around his eyes, blood dripping from a painful looking cut above his left eyebrow.

Then she noticed the him holding his side gingerly, wincing in pain as she pulled him along. Without waiting for permission she snagged the hem of his shirt, pulling it up to see a mottled pattern of bruises along his ribs. Her fingers traced the contusions, trembling at the contact. “What happened?”

He cursed under his breath, pulling away from her. “Shit, I shouldn’t have come here. Asshole busted my cellphone and I didn’t want you to think I forgot… I’ll go.”

He turned to leave, but Karen darted between him and the door, hands coming up to grasp his arms. “You cannot show up on my doorstep bleeding and bruised and not tell me what happened!”

She could feel his body heat beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, her pulse racing at the contact. This is why she didn’t drink wine, it went straight to her head. He was smirking at her, even under his rapidly swelling face he was still exactly the irritating ass he always was. “What’s the matter Page, can’t stand to see me go?”

She rolled her eyes, stomping over to her bathroom and coming back with her first aid kit. “At least let me get you cleaned up.”

She pushed him over to her couch, urging him to sit on it’s edge, whipping out some cotton balls and peroxide. Wiping away the blood dripping down the side of his face, she waited for him to tell her what the hell was going on.

“Did you know Ellie is an orphan?”

The question was soft, hot air puffing out against the skin of her arm as she held a cotton ball suspended in front of his face. It caught her off guard. “What?”

“Ellie Natchios, the foul mouthed little spark plug that caught us necking in the lounge. She’s lived in a group home for the better part of the last year, and a couple months ago she was fostered out.”

“That’s good isn’t it?” Karen dropped the bloody cotton balls into a waste basket, plucking a butterfly bandage from her kit. She peeled off the backing and carefully applied it to his eyebrow, biting her bottom lip in concentration

Frank stared at her while she worked unaware of his gaze. She was beautiful when she was focused on something, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her fine eyebrows. Blinking, he cleared his throat and continued. “It could have been, I suppose. But this guy… I had a bad feeling the first time I met him a parent/teacher conference.”

Karen smoothed the bandage down, her touch lingering half a beat too long. Frank’s story made her frown. “A bad feeling?”

He nodded. “And today, I was walking to my car, and I saw them both in the parking lot. She was smarting off at him about something, typical teenage stuff, and he just… he just backhanded her like it was nothing, knocking her to the ground.”

Karen sat across from him, her mouth falling open. “That’s awful.”

He took a deep breath. “She was so small, lying there on the pavement. I saw red. I don’t know. It happened so fast. I was across the parking lot, fist to his face in less than ten seconds.” He shifted, the pain at his ribs drawing his attention. “Old bastard had cat-like reflexes, took me by surprise. Beat the shit out of me with his walking stick before a couple of cops intervened.”

“Oh, Frank…”

He ignored her soft exhalation, shrugging like it was nothing. “Anyway, that’s why I’m late. The cops wanted a statement, and I had to convince them to let me find a place for Ellie to stay instead of taking her back to the shelter. I’m sorry.”

Karen was already up, crossing the short gap between them. Maybe the wine was making her a little reckless, but she couldn’t resist the urge to cradle his injured face, tracing the swelling along his cheek with her thumb. She bent down, capturing his lips with hers, moving in softly so as to not bump his bruises. She pulled back. “Don’t be sorry.”

He laughed, a low little rumble in his chest. He tugged her down into his lap, grunting from the faint twinge of pain. “Maybe I ought to get the shit kicked out of me more often, if this is how you nurse me back to health.” His hands slipped beneath her ratty gray sweater, palming the smooth expanse of her back. “Interesting choice of clothing for a date.”

She laughed, feeling a blush creep up her neck. She pushed him back on the couch, straddling his hips. “It’s all the rage, baggy college-era sweats.”

Frank slipped his other hand underneath the sweater, finding the smooth skin of her breast, nipple pebbled under his brushing thumb. “You drive me to distraction.” The sweater was up and over her head before she could blink, Frank pulling her down to him so he could taste the hollow of her neck, inhale the scent of her hair. He wanted her to surround him.

She complied, wiggling off of him to quickly shuck off the sweatpants, tugging at his boots and jeans until he gave up in frustration, kicking the things off. The fog of Karen’s desire dissipated when he tossed his shirt aside, revealing the expanse of bruises on his side. “Fuck, Frank. We shouldn’t be doing this. You’re hurt.”

He growled, scooping her up and carrying her to the bed. “Like hell I am.”


	14. Pieces of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: What about Frank showing up in Karen's apartment once or twice because he needs to lay low, but he didn't give her any warning and is still pretty distant and detached. So in revenge, Karen always hides/keeps something of is after he falls asleep. This keeps him coming back, and they grow closer over time...**

At first it’s not anything he’ll miss, just a button that’s already hanging loose from his jacket. It would have fallen off sooner or later. She carries it in her pocket for days after he leaves. **  
**

Then it's a coffee cup from Starbucks with “Fredo” written on the side. She rinses it out and sets it on her counter, snagging a few daisies from a street vendor and dropping them into the plastic cup to brIghten up her cramped apartment. That lasts until the flowers wilt and she can't logically think of a reason not to throw a disposable coffee cup away. And so for a little while she carries the button around again.

It's just a little thing that reminds her that he was there, that she didn’t dream him showing up hurt and more than a bit tired at her door.

Because it does seem so dreamlike, Frank relentless silence, holding onto his words with a vice-like grip. Karen can’t help but get exasperated trying to pry loose something other than a monosyllabic reply. She has no other choice but to embrace the quiet and leave him be. She can never quite tell if he’s relieved by this or disappointed that she’s not more tenacious.

His visits aren’t frequent, and Karen starts to wonder what it'll take to get him to come back on his own, to not have his hand forced by an overzealous cop or a gang of well trained thugs. She gets a little bolder, slipping a needle and thread from his first aid kit, plucking a few brass jacketed bullets from his carefully inventoried ammo belt. She hopes he’ll notice.

The little box of Frank paraphernalia she has hidden under her bed contains less than a half a dozen items, but she finds herself dragging them out and lining them up on her nightstand sometimes, taking small comfort in their presence.

Frank protects the city, and by extension her. It’s been a long time since she’s felt safe like this. That’s has to be the source of this feeling deep inside of her, this need to cling to him. At least that’s what she tells herself. She’s not brave enough yet to contemplate the possibility that he has a special interest in her, aside from the convenience of laying low at her apartment. And she’s definitely not brave enough to consider the idea that she has a special interest in him.

It’s become a nightly ritual of hers, to line up all these pieces of Frank in a neat little row, soldiers standing ready. The latest item is a larger and perhaps riskier acquisition. It’s his watch, a simple utilitarian thing. It’s black with a worn canvas wrist strap, the digital face dark unless the button on the side is pushed. Very nondescript. She hadn’t even noticed that he wore it until she found it lying on her bathroom sink, nestled beside her toothbrush holder.

And he can’t exactly be mad at her for squirrelling it away. He is the one who forgot it after all. Granted, he’d only been one room away when she’d plucked it up off the counter, and she could have slipped it into his bag before he left. A part of her thinks this'll be the thing that tips him off, that lets him know all these missing things are no accident.

It would be nice to see him when he isn’t distracted by pain, or nervously looking down into her alley every twenty minutes. She doesn’t like the distance it puts between them. It’s convenient perhaps. The night in the woods still echoes in both of their minds whenever Frank’s nightly activities come up between them, whether in the form of a bruised jaw or a tense look.  She wonders what it took for him to come to her the first time, what kind of pep talk he had to give himself to come expecting help after she’d told him he was dead to her.

She regrets the words, credits them with creating this chasm of silence between them.

Karen sighs, scooting the objects one by one off her nightstand and back into the box. It is a an infinite loop of illogical thinking, and she has a bad habit of overanalyzing their interactions. Frank makes his own damn decisions, regardless of how he feels about her. The box goes back under the bed where it belongs and Karen tries like hell to get some sleep.

She tosses and turns. Cursing, she angrily fluffs her pillow, punching the overstuffed pillowcase like it’s Frank’s stubborn jaw and if she hits it just right he’ll flee from her mind. She’s never had anyone look at her the way he does, his eyes so full of pain, hope weakly flickering in their dark depths. It’s that hope that wrecks her, makes her want to close the space between them and wrap her arms around the big man until he finally breaks down and hugs her back.

She knows he likes her. She’s seen him smile, laugh with genuine amusement at the memories she sparks, seen Frank’s warm beating heart underneath his punisher armor. The only people that can hurt that much are the ones that are capable of loving just as  intensely.

Her eyes drift shut, indescribable longing curls in and out of her limbs. It’s a feeling she can’t give voice to, even if she wanted to describe it the words just aren’t there. She doesn’t know exactly what she wants so badly, or why she’s struck with the irresistible urge to cry when she realizes she’ll never have it.

She’s about to give in to sleep, let the sweeping embrace pull her under where she can dream of the things she wants, when there’s a knock at her door. It’s the softly scraping tap of a man who doesn’t actually want to wake her up if she’s sleeping.

She’s out of the bed in seconds, rushing over to drag the chain from it’s slot. She doesn’t even bother flicking the lights on. When the door swings open she’s almost embarrassed at how eager she seems, cheeks flushed, slightly breathless from running across her apartment. 

He’s frowning, black cap pulled low, a loose fitting army jacket hanging off his shoulders, no doubt concealing a weapon or two. He doesn’t step across the threshold when she moves out of the way, instead standing stock still, feet planted on the floor. He clears his throat, as if readying for a speech. “Ma’am.”

That’s it, the single word, his eyes piercing her with a knowing stare. That’s all it takes. She knows he knows about the watch, that she took it and he didn’t simply lose it. She wanted this, and yet it’s still embarrassing. Her blush intensifies, the heat of it radiating off her skin. “Frank.”

One corner of his mouth twitches up and he takes off his cap so he can see her more clearly, gingerly holding the thing between his thumb and forefinger. There’s amusement in the set of his jaw, in the slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “Never pegged you for a thief.”

_You never pegged me at all, Frank._ Her eyes widen, for a brief moment fearful that he can hear her ridiculous thoughts. She curses the way her mind works. The moment she gets flustered all appropriate trains of thought flee and she’s only left with a completely unhelpful inner monologue. “Um… I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“So that’s how it’s gonna be? Gonna add extortion to your growing list of crimes?”

He’s clearly joking with her, and even though she wants things to be different between them, this is somehow too foreign. He’s teasing her for Pete’s sake. She can’t formulate a response, and when he pushes past her into the apartment a faint little noise of relief escapes her. Out of his line of vision, she regains some composure, shutting and locking the door behind her. What had he said? Extortion… Maybe she would add that to the list.

He’s squinting in the dark at the coffee cups in her kitchen sink, little brown rings staining their bottoms, sticky with dried sugar. She hardly ever does dishes, washing and drying out the nearest one when she needs it. She’s never been embarrassed by it before, but for some reason having the meticulous man poke around her kitchen sets her on edge. “I assume you want your watch back.”

He glances up, pinning again with his gaze. “Well, it is _my_ watch, ma’am.”

She nods, imitating the way Foggy crosses his arms when examining a hostile witness. She puts on her most lawyerly air, squaring her shoulders and looking him straight in the eye. “Well, possession is nine tenths of the law, or so I hear. In a property dispute in the absence of clear and compelling testimony or documentation stating otherwise, the person in actual, custodial possession of an object is presumed to be the rightful owner.”

Frank snorts, a genuine laugh escaping him. “Lawyer bullshit. You need to spend less time with those scumbags.” He’s grinning at her now, stepping a little closer. “How exactly should we settle this dispute, ma’am?”

Some of her confidence tries to flee, but Karen forces herself to hold onto it with an iron grip. “Well, Mr. Castle. Would you like to purchase the watch from me, since you want it so badly?”

“I got about ten bucks in my pocket.”

“I’m not interested in cash.”

“No?”

“No.. I’m more interested in the currency of information.”

He frowns, fingering the seam of his black cap thoughtfully. “Information?”

“How about you tell me who the hell broke two of your ribs last week? We can start there.” She manages to infuse her request with confidence, knowing that he could just clam up again and walk out the door. But she’s banking on the fact that he actually wants to talk to her. Why the hell else would he have come looking for a cheap watch?

Nodding, he makes his way to her couch, dropping down in the lumpy cushions with a little groan. “Well, that would be your buddy Red.”

The game fades away, and suddenly she’s sitting beside him, mouth hanging open in surprise. “Matt?”

“Yup, got me real good with those quick feet of his before I blacked his eye.”

“What were you doing?”

“Just having a philosophical discussion, ma’am.” He grins at her. “Red likes to try and kick me around, but I think he likes it when I get some good licks in, massages that guilt he’s always carrying around.” Dropping his cap on her coffee table, he thoughtfully drags his index finger across his knuckles. “Jack Murdock’s boy ain’t got no glass jaw, that’s for sure.”

Karen smiles, in spite of the fact she is talking to one of the most frustrating people she knows about the other most frustrating person she knows. This is definitely not the discussion she had in mind when she tried to lure Frank back.

He relaxes into her couch, tension rolling out of his shoulders, head dropping back to rest on the cushion. Instinctively she reaches forward, running her thumb along the edge of his cheekbone. It’s too dark to see really, the light of a street lamp the only illumination, but she can tell the bruises from last week are fading. His skin is warm though, and she’s suddenly accosted with nearly paralyzing self-consciousness. She pulls the hand away, sheepishly saying, “Well, you don’t seem worse for wear now.”

“Not a lot of bullshit going on this week, surprisingly.”

Gone is the amusement that had laced his words. It’s all serious business for Frank, business that he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing with her after the incident in the woods. She frowns, opening and closing her mouth like a fish trying to find something to say. “Frank, I--”

He cuts her off, abruptly getting up. “Mind if I make some coffee?”

She shakes her head. “No. Sure.. it’s fine.”

She watches him gracefully go through her cabinets, scoop out the coffee granules, pour the water into the pot. She thinks maybe they’ll have to broach this talking thing at another time. Quickly, she snatches his cap off the coffee table and tosses it behind a sickly house plant. She’ll make sure there’s another time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N: Thanks so so so much to anyone who stops and takes the time to let me know what you think. It really means the world to me and it's incredibly encouraging._  
>  My [Ask Box](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for prompts! (Even if i take a while to get to them :/)


	15. The Daughter of My Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Kastle with Karen as the daughter of a mob boss, please?**

Subtlety wasn’t exactly Frank Castle’s forte. Lies didn’t slip off his tongue easily, and anyone looking directly into his eyes would be able to see his murderous intent. So, no, he didn’t like going undercover to get closer to a target. Putting on a facade of bullshit and making nice with the enemy wasn’t something he’d ever pictured himself doing. **  
**

But, it’s not like he had any other choice in the matter. Terrence Page was a man fully aware of his place in the world, and of the many many crosshairs trained on him because of it. He was neither stupid nor reckless and surrounded himself with a veritable army of bodyguards, using the  brutish looking men to coordinate his movements with an arsenal of weapons hidden under their dark jackets.

But Frank wasn’t stupid either, and it was easy enough for him to forge a new identity, using old army contacts to provide letters of recommendation for a special ops vet named “Francis Castiglione.”

It took Frank almost a year to work his way up in the organization. There had been months of guarding closed doors and sitting in parked cars outside of nondescript buildings before Frank had finally been promoted into the inner circle, his trigger finger itchier than ever. Page’s last personal guard had met with his untimely demise in a dark alley not a week ago. Frank could still hear the man’s shocked gasp mere seconds before he put two bullets in his chest.

Frank’s promotion had come with another series of mind-numbing responsibilities. Checking Page’s personal quarters before he retired for the night, sitting through long meetings with grovelling business owners, even helping the despicable man. Had Frank been one to employ poison or other quiet modes of killing, Terrence Page would have been dead weeks ago. There was just something too satisfying about turning evil people into swiss cheese.

And today was the day that all his planning had come together. Page had some personal matter he needed to attend to and had banished his less trustworthy men to the outskirts of his estate, leaving only Frank in the room with him. Apparently the matter was sensitive, but Frank didn’t give a shit what it was about, as long as it put him close to the mob boss and left him with a viable exit strategy. He patted the gun under his jacket, his pulse quickening just a bit.

He scoped out Page’s study, doing the cursory pre-meeting once over to make sure the place was safe. He was happy to see the rest of the guards were loitering down by the gated entrance, fucking around with their cars, shooting the shit as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Frank didn’t want to kill any of them. Aside from a few barroom brawls most of the men didn’t have any real criminal activity under their belts and were just trying to make a buck. 

The tumblers in the door behind him flipped, a softly muffled clicking noise that had him turning around swiftly. He expected the portly figure of his boss to lumber through the entrance, and he already had one hand under his jacket reaching for his gun, finger flicking the safety off.

But it wasn’t a man’s blunt tipped fingers that curled around the edge of the door top push it open, but rather a woman’s slender manicured ones. Delicately boned and pale. The oak panel swung open to reveal a neatly coifed blonde head, bright blue eyes wide with surprise.

Frank’s breath caught in his chest, hand falling away from the cold metal of his gun. He couldn’t help but stare at the woman, at the way she patted down the front of her silk dress, at the faint blush creeping up her neck.

She laughed nervously, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair back into place. “I, uh… I guess I’m early.”

Early? What business could Terrence Page possibly have with this unassumingly beautiful woman? Was she his mistress? Someone who was at the man’s beck and call for the price of a few fine furs and a strand of pearls? No, that just didn’t fit. There was something about her, an aura of goodness that shone brightly and made him feel like a dim dark thing. 

Frank watched her move gracefully across the room, rocking on her kitten heels as she perused one of Terrence’s bookshelves. She reached out tentatively and made a selection, lovingly tracing the title scrolled in gold across the front. A sweet smile tugged at her lips, love shining from her eyes. “I can’t believe he still has this. It was my favorite book as a child.”

Ah. Page’s daughter, Karen. The one person who inspired a soft and loving tone from the hard man. Frank had never seen her before. She’d been carted off to Europe years ago for her own safety, all traces of her basically erased from Page’s home. Frank had expected her to be a spoiled little brat draped in designer threads, used to commanded everyone around her with a flick of her dainty wrist.

He stepped toward her, curiosity winning out over his common sense. He reached out for the book, his interest clear in the expression on his face. She involuntarily shied away from him, nervous once again, before shaking off the feeling and handing him the book.

He looked down at a well worn copy of _The Little Prince,_ thumbing through the pages of the novella. “Kind of a sad book for a little girl.”

Her laugh was quiet, infused with self-consciousness. “Oh, it was. I nearly cried myself sick the first time I finished it.” She sighed. “I loved it. That’s the first edition copy father got me for my tenth birthday.” Warmth enveloped her words, love for her father ringing clear. 

He moved past her to reshelve the book, gently slipping it into the vacant spot until it was flush with its companions. She relaxed some, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. “Antoine de Saint-Exupéry is the reason I want to be a writer.” She nodded toward Frank’s coffee sitting on the edge of Page’s desk. “He’d stay up late writing and drinking coffee, seemingly never satisfied with anything, pages and pages of fine handwriting, half of it crossed out.”

She was smiling now, waiting for him to continue their polite conversation, an unbearable lightness emanating from her until it completely filled the spacious office. Frank felt like he was suffocating and tried valiantly not to show his discomfort at the feeling. He stepped away from her, reaching for his coffee. “Your old man’s  late.”

She looked down at her watch, biting her bottom lip. “Terrence Page is never late. Other people are simply early.” 

Frank peered out the window, watching the men at the gate. He grunted in agreement, “Mmm.” He settled in for an uneventful day. There was no way in hell he was killing Page in front of his daughter. Frank didn’t leave witnesses and he didn’t harm the innocent. Sometimes it really put him in a tight spot.

He’d barely had time to contemplate how many weeks or even months this was going to drag out his plan when he heard a hauntingly familiar sound. The ominous click of a fifty caliber machine gun engaging, bullets whizzing through the air a fraction of a second before he dashed across the room.

He collided with Karen, her face full of surprise, at the same moment the glass in the window shattered. They hurtled to the floor in a hail of debris, Frank trying his best to cover her entire body with his own as the ammo ripped through the office. She curled up beneath him, instinctively making herself smaller, her fingers already covering her head as his own came up to cradle it.

Time slowed for Frank, his adrenaline stretching the seconds out. He counted the bullets out of habit, mentally noting the trajectory and speed of the rounds. He’d already mapped out an escape by the time the shots stopped, jerking Karen up and dragging her out into the hall the very second he thought it was safe.

Without a word, he turned and pushed her toward a service door, the two of them scrambling down the stairs as quickly as possible. Frank knew every inch of this estate and constantly worked under the assumption that he might have to make a clandestine getaway. There was a gassed up SUV full of guns and ammo in the underground garage just waiting for him. Of course, he’d never intended to add ‘kidnap the target’s daughter’ to his itinerary, but then again was it really kidnapping if the victim went willingly?

He wasn’t even pulling her along now, she was running full speed behind him, anticipating his every move. When they reached the escape vehicle she bent down and reached into the tire well, pulling out a handgun secreted there.

His eyebrows shot up, watching her run around the side of the SUV and slide into the passenger seat. Well at least this would be an interesting ride. He opened the door and jumped in, gunning the accelerator toward the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [Ask Box](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for prompts ideas or even head canons. Please don't be shy, I love hearing from other people on the Kastle ship :D


	16. Cradle the Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Kastle switched backgrounds AU?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(I posted this on tumblr a while ago and completely forgot to put it on ao3, oops)_

Frank wasn’t sure what was stranger, the fact that the guards thought this delicate looking blonde was capable of hurting him, or the fact that in spite of everything she’d been accused of - things he knew she had done -  he still couldn’t keep himself from crossing the thin red tape on the hospital floor.

She was handcuffed to the bed, dark circles under her eyes camouflaged by an array of bruises. Her knuckles were scraped and swollen where they had collided with more than a few unyielding cheekbones. His heart ached when he thought about the pain that motivated her, the grief fueled rage that lived in her bones. It ached even more when he thought about the picture tucked safely in the case file behind him.

They looked at each other intently, a staring competition of sorts. Karen’s jaw was clenched shut, big blue eyes boring into him. She wasn’t going to be the one to blink. Frank sighed, “Look, there’s more here than meets the eye. Let us help you.”

Her jaw unclenched, and she let out a bitter laugh. “You boys don’t know shit. I killed those men, all of them. I’m not sorry.”

Frank frowned, suddenly angry. He whipped around and snatched the photo he’d been thinking about, lunging past the red tape and waving the thing in her face. She looked a bit startled, vulnerability flashing across her features before she repositioned the mask of anger. He knew she loved the children in the photo, the angelic little blonde cherubs clinging to the legs of their mother and father.The woman in the picture was staring up at the man as if he were the moon and stars, a smiling from ear to ear. She swallowed painfully, and Frank took it as his cue. “Don’t you want answers?”

Karen couldn’t answer, for fear of falling apart in front of the lawyers. She couldn’t take that, the self-righteous little one, Nelson of Nelson and Murdock, giving her disgusted little glances when he thought she wasn’t looking. And Murdock, standing there innocently pretending that she hadn’t kicked his ass a few nights ago, pathetic little vigilant unable to disguise the unmistakable lilt in his voice. She didn’t want them to see her weak, ever, but it was Frank, staring down at her desperately that she really couldn’t fall apart in front of. She clenched her teeth together harder, staring up at him angrily.

He continued. “We want answers too, but no one will get them if you’re rotting in jail… if your cellie kills you!”

Matt reached forward, hooking a hand under Frank’s elbow and pulling him away from the bed. Frank let it happen, easing back from Karen. He could see the pain swirling inside of her, great waves of it crashing one after another against the shores of her soul, absolutely unrelenting. He felt bad for raising his voice..

“Where did you get that?” She croaked out the question, unthinkingly reaching out toward him with her cuffed hand. The clink of the metal sliding along the railing of her bed was a cruel reminder of the situation she found herself in.

Frank softened somewhat, stepping forward once again to drop the photo in her lap. “From your home.”

He could remember the way it looked, as though it had been frozen in time. Toys were still scattered on the stairs, folded laundry sitting on one of the beds, a table set for a breakfast that was never going to happen. He ached for the loss she must constantly feel.

She picked the photo up, tracing the tip of her finger along her husband’s smile, caressing his face in the picture. She could close her eyes and feel him, smell the aftershave he was wearing the last day she saw him. She didn’t think it was something she would ever be able to forget. And her children, little balls of energy and love running circles around them. She couldn’t even bear to look at them in the picture. Tearing her eyes away, she looked up at frank. “You went to my home?”

A part of her wanted to be angry at this invasion, but instead she felt surprisingly grateful. It was the first time anyone had cared about her as a human being, and not a relentless killer, since all of this had started. She hardened herself against the feelings invading her. No one ever did anything for anyone else unless they wanted something. “Why were you in my house?”

The top of Frank’s ears reddened a bit, and he could hear Foggy and Matt shift to stare at him. He really shouldn’t have been in her house, shouldn’t have been snooping around in a situation that he literally had no power to make better, but for some reason when it came to Karen Page he couldn’t help himself. He knew what loss was like, the things it made you do.

He was saved from having to answer her sharp question by noises coming from the hall. Reyes’ voice angrily carrying through the musty air of the hospital, the district attorney’s heels clicking forcefully as she stomped into the room. Frank, leaned forward quickly, eyes locking with Karen’s. He spoke lowly, only for her to hear. “Someone is lying about what happened here, Miss Page.”

This time when the mask of anger fell away from Karen’s face she let it, her heart caught in her throat as the three men were ushered out into the hall. Frank didn’t break eye contact with her until he passed through the door, communicating with his relentless stare that he was on her side. The tears that rolled down her cheeks were the first ones to fall since everything had been taken from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(This begs for more chapters. Maybe I’ll do one for each of the hospital scenes?)_


	17. Your Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Tumblr Prompt: Frank and Karen live in the same apartment building. Frank is usually a smart-ass or just an ass in general towards Karen (which she finds oddly charming yet rude), but one day Karen sees how gentle, patient and kind he is with their 6 year old neighbor.** _A/N: the resulting one shot is slightly different from what the prompt wanted. It kind of got away from me but I like it nonetheless._

She’s locked out, again, keys lying uselessly on the other side of the door. She groans, leaning her head against the rough paneling. It’s been a long day and all she wants to do is sleep, not bang on Pete Martinelli’s door for half an hour trying to get her spare. Her super is a useless drunk when he’s home, which isn’t very often. **  
**

It’s not the first, or even third time she’s found herself stranded out in the hall, barefoot in her damn pajamas no less. It probably won’t be the last with these new locks. Foggy insisted that she replace the flimsy knob-lock with an automatic deadbolt, and now her apartment is an impenetrable fortress when the door swings shut. Gone are the days when she could jimmy the thing open with a credit card and naked determination. Fuck.

Then she hears it, the heavy thump of combat boots coming down the hall. It’s Frank. The tops of her ears turn red with embarrassment and she wishes there was some other explanation for her situation, something that didn’t make her sound completely like an incompetent ninny who locked herself out while walking trash to the chute. She turns around slowly, already expecting the annoyingly smug look on his face.

He doesn’t disappoint, one eyebrow shooting up in amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching as he gives her a slow up and down look. Heat chases along her skin everywhere his eyes linger, unwanted desire thrumming through her. Why does she have to be attracted to this asshole?

“Nice outfit, Page. I think you forgot the fuzzy slippers.”

There it is. The snarky comment she’d expected from the moment she heard his footsteps. He always has something to say, always gives her that look of smug amusement. Always makes her damn pulse jump, blood rushing to her extremities. Her nostrils flare, the heat of indignation replacing her embarrassment. She stomps across the hall to stand in front of him. “Could you be a gentleman for once in your life and spare me the smartass comments?” She sharply gestures to her attire. “I’m clearly a damsel in distress.”

He shoulders his bag, giving her one last salacious look before turning back to his door. He slips his key in the lock, and leans his shoulder against the wood paneling. “It’s your lucky night.”

Is he inviting her in? Heat rushes to her cheeks even as she takes a step to follow him. But he stops abruptly, a strange look crossing his features when he turns to find her standing so close. 

He clears his throat, and for the first time since he’s been her neighbor he looks unsure of himself. “Uh, I passed Pete on the way in and he’s not stinking drunk. Like I said, lucky night.”

She knows she’s as red as a tomato, embarrassment flooding her so completely she’s thinks she’s going to drown in it. Without a word, she spins away from him, marching toward the stairs.

Frank calls out after her retreating form. “You’re no damsel in distress, Page!”

She rounds the corner, taking the stairs two at a time, mumbling to herself. “No shit, and you’re no knight in shining armor, Castle.”

* * *

A blessed week passes before Karen sees him again. She’s taken to scurrying past his door as quickly as possible, and it’s only after three completely Frank free days that she notices he’s not actually coming and going. By day seven her guards are down and she’s almost forgotten about the embarrassing hallway encounter.

Coming home from work after a particularly hellish news cycle, all she wants is to down the deliciously creamy ice coffee clutched to her chest and settle in for a TV marathon. But there are emails that need to be sent to get colleagues at The Bulletin, and Matt and Foggy are both continuously bombarding her with texts about their latest case. Her investigative skills have proven useful lately, but she just wishes she could unhook from the rest of the world for one peaceful and stress free night.

She has her head down, eyes glued to her phone as she doggedly marches up the stairs to her apartment. She doesn’t notice the sound of Frank’s heavy boots until it’s too late. 

They both round the corner into the cramped stairwell at the same time, Frank headed in the opposite direction. Her coffee is crushed between them, soaking the front of her blouse as her phone clatters to the floor.

She sees red, every little frustration from the past ten hours colliding together and exploding. An angry yell escapes her. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”

Frank is already kneeling to pick up her phone, and the question makes him pause, eyes narrowing as he looks up at her. There’s a brief flash of anger in his eyes before he squelches it. “ _Excuse me_?” He waives her phone at her. “You were the one not paying attention.” Looking down at the phone, his frown deepens. “I think you could have waited five minutes before texting your boyfriend back.”

She’s never heard a word so filled with disgust and it surprises her. It’s too late to backtrack, not without looking like an idiot, so she doubles down. “Where are you going in such a damn hurry anyway?”

He stands up, fruitlessly brushing at the giant stain blooming across his white tee. “Not that it’s any of your damn business but I was headed to Mabel’s.” He looks down at the stain in disgust. “Unlike you, I like a little coffee with my cream and sugar.”

The material clings to him, and Karen hopes like hell that he can’t see the way she’s ogling him. Good lord, the man must work out every free moment of his life. She swallows and collects herself, trying like hell to drag her eyes away from the clearly outlined ridges of his chest. “Well don’t let me stop you.” She bites the words off, hoping they’ll hide the how wobbly her voice sounds. He has her off-center and he doesn’t even know it. It’s so unfair.

She doesn’t wait for a response, pushing past him. It isn’t easy to do in the small space, and at one point she’s nose to nose with him, breaths mingling for half a second before pulling away. She practically runs up the stairs in an effort to escape the insane need she feels. Her name echoes behind her, but she keeps going.

* * *

She makes due with the cheap coffee in her pantry, watching her ancient coffee pot struggle to drip the liquid gold into the slightly cracked carafe. It’s almost full when she hears the knock on her door, the last couple drops rippling across the surface like silk. She ignores the knock, focusing instead on stirring her sugar into the hot liquid. The cream diffuses through the dark in pale amber blooms and a satisfied sigh escapes her. She takes a drink, fully intending to ignore her visitor.

But the knocking persists, getting a little more frantic, a little louder. She’s no idiot, no one knocks on your door after ten at night with good news. Cautiously she peeks through the peephole, eyes widening in shock at the picture she’s presented with. 

It’s her gorgeously smug neighbor, a frown unlike anything she’s ever seen painted across his face. It’s accompanied by a large purpling bruise riding along the edge of his cheek. Now she’s the one that’s frantic, hands trembling as she scrambles to flip her deadbolts. God damn Foggy and his good intentions. Finally she slides the chain free from its latch, swinging the door wide open.

He’s not alone, a small and delicate child ensconced in his arms, her big dark eyes sparkling with unshed tears. She can’t be more than four. Karen’s seen her playing on the stoop under the loving gaze of her watchful mother. Frank’s breathing heavily, like he bounded up four flights of stairs, his jaw ticking with barely suppressed rage. The little girl starts to whimper. 

Instinctively, Karen steps toward them, reaching out, but the child curls into her protector, tiny fingers grabbing up fistfuls of his tee-shirt. Karen watches as he consciously slows his breathing, adjusting his grip to cradle the child’s head against his shoulder. Softly he makes shushing noises until the child’s silent sobs abate.

Karen is entranced, watching him. It’s a full minute before she snaps out of it, moving to put down her coffee and scoop a blanket up from her couch. She drapes the soft thing around the trembling child, leaning in to whisper in Frank’s ear, “What happened?”

“Her mother…” He stops, shaking his head at her. Karen doesn’t know whether it’s because he doesn’t want the child to hear, or because even mentioning it sends a fresh wave of anger washing over him. Again, he pushes it down, pacing back and forth, swaying with the child.

Time passes in a vacuum, Karen watching the surreal scene in a dreamlike haze. Finally the little girl succumbs to exhaustion, falling limp in Frank’s arms, tiny chest rising and falling evenly. Ever so gently, he moves over to the bed, laying the sleeping child down. Karen watches in fascination as he adjusts the blanket, sweeping a stray lock of hair away from the girl’s face.

Satisfied, he abruptly rises, hands balling into fists as he walks toward her door. “Can you watch her until I get back?”

Karen blinks, suddenly aware of the lunacy she’s found herself in. Reaching out, she snags his arm, whispering as forcefully as she can. “Hey, tell me what the hell is going on.”

His muscles tense, and for a second she’s afraid that he’s going to jerk out of her grasp and stomp out without talking to her, but the opposite happens. He takes a deep breath, turning to face her. “Some… assholes jumped her mother and dragged her into the alley beside the building. Left Alyssa screaming out on the stoop all alone. I…” He trails off, the after effects of adrenaline making it hard to recount the incident. “I beat one of them into a bloody pulp but the other one got away. EMT’s took her mother to the ER, and the cops just left her with me because they thought I was her father.”

She’d heard the sirens, ignored them as always. “Ariana?”

He nods. 

“How is she?”

“It was… bad.” Anger suffuses his features again, fingers balling into fists. “I have to go find that other son of a bitch. Please just…. watch her until I get back.”

Silently she acquiesces, watching Frank disappear down the hall before retreating back into her apartment. There’s no way in hell she’ll ever be able to look at him the same. She may not be a damsel in distress, but Frank is certainly the closest she’s ever gotten to a knight in shining armor. She’s a goner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to let me know what you though of this one. Comments make my life. Also, my [ask box](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/ask) is always open for prompts and general spazzing out over frank and karen. :D


	18. Your Knight (Part 2)

Karen leaves a lamp on by her couch. It glows softly, casting the entire apartment in a muted yellow hue. She doesn’t have a night-light for the little girl, but she doesn’t want the child waking up scared in the dark. It’s an unpleasant sensation she’s all too familiar with.

With each passing hour, she gets a little more antsy, tension slowly but surely building. It’s like a rubber band being pulled taught, the anxiety of the situation like waiting for the painful snap to finally come. She paces in time with the ticking of her clock, stopping occasionally to peer down into the alley where it happened. Fear shudders through her, and for the millionth time she tells herself that this is just temporary, that she’ll move to a better neighborhood eventually.

It’s an empty solace though, because no matter how far she goes there will still be people like Ariana and her daughter that are left to suffer. Sometimes it feels like a plague, the constant flow of crime and hurt that boils across the city. Righteous indignation burns through her, and the gears in her mind whir. She already has the opening line for her next article percolating. It’s a call to action. This c ity needs to roll up its god damned sleeves and take out the fucking trash.

Like Frank… He’s out there right now, tracking down the person responsible, doing exactly what the cops aren’t. It’s dangerous, she knows, but there’s something about the man, a hard edge that brooks little argument. He can take care of himself. The thought is like a mantra running through her brain. The city needs people like that, nothing can happen to him. It just can’t.

The knock is so soft she almost doesn’t hear it. A short tattoo followed by a long pause. She waits, holding her breath. It comes again and she’s halfway across the apartment without even thinking. 

When she looks through the peephole he’s already walking away. The chain slides smoothly from its slot, cool against her trembling fingers. The sound of the deadbolts flipping is jarring in the thick quiet.

She slips quietly out into the hall, only to find him sitting sprawled out across from her door, head leaned back against the wall in exhaustion, eye shut. He appears to be waiting for her.

“Frank?” She whispers, moving closer. “Are you alright?”

It’s clear that he’s not. The black eye from earlier in the evening is a mere scratch compared to the collage of marks scattered across his face. His lip is split, a line of neat stitches like a dead-end road marches across his left cheekbone. 

Instinctively, she moves toward him, the door swinging shut behind her with an audible snick as all the locks catch. His eyes open, amusement sparkling in their dark depths. “Did you just lock yourself out again?”

Relief washes over her, a smile slowly spreading across her face when she moves to sit down beside him. “Nope.”

Her fingers dip into the vee of her pajama top, proudly withdrawing a silk ribbon with two keys on the end of it. “Pete smelled like hookers and sambuca the last time I woke him up to unlock my door.” She wrinkles her nose at the memory. “Never again.”

He shifts beside her, wincing as he leans down to pick up something she hadn’t even noticed. It’s one of those little cardboard cup holders they use at coffee shops, two paper cups slotted next to each other. He takes one and shoves the other toward her. “Heavy cream, lots of syrup, a dash of coffee.”

She takes it from him ignoring the teasing way he describes her coffee order. He moves so gingerly, voice tight with hidden pain. There’s no doubt in her mind that there are a few bruised ribs underneath his cotton shirt. Her gaze narrows. Is that a shoe print right above where his kidneys should be? She can’t make small talk, not with so much shit hanging in the air. “What happened Frank?”

He sighs, taking a long gulp of his coffee “I found the guy, along with a couple of his friends. They objected to me kicking the shit out of him.”

“And?”

“Their objections were ignored.”

She’s getting irritated now, with all his sidestepping. She narrows her eyes, taking a slow sip of her sugary concoction as she stares at him. “Where is he?”

“I didn’t kill the son of a bitch. He’s in a holding cell downtown.”

It’s enough of an answer. She’d honestly been expecting him to completely sidestep her questions, try to distract her with witty or charming anecdotes. She’s relieved. There’s only so much delicate handling that she can take. Frank’s attitude is refreshing.

She gestures toward her apartment, gaze landing on the peeling paint of her reinforced door. “What do we do about her?”

“Her mother looks worse than I do, but she’s gonna be fine. I stopped by the ER after dropping that shitbag with New York’s finest. It’ll be a day or two in the hospital tops. I’ll watch the girl until she gets back. Foster care is a nightmare in this city.”

Karen nods. That’s something she’s familiar with too. “I’ll take her in the evenings if you can handle the day shift.”

His head snaps around in surprise, one eyebrow shooting up. “Yeah?”

Karen nods, moving to get up. She offers a hand to Frank, and is met with hesitation. Just as she’s about to open her mouth and ask him to come with her, he reaches out and takes the proffered help, grunting in pain as he rises. “Shit, I should just stick to dog-walking.”

“Dog-walking?” She sounds surprised, but is easy to see. He’s got the easy athleticism of someone who gets a lot of exercise, and she’s seen an innate gentleness in him.

“Yeah. I think I’ll have to take tomorrow off though.” He turns to leave, fingers slipping from her grasp. She tightens her grip. “You’re not getting away that easy. Did you see a doctor at the hospital.”

“I’m fine.”

“Did you?”

He sighs, weariness settling over him as he gives in. “A beautiful nurse with gentle hands and a sweet smile.” The words are calculated, and Karen feels like she’s being baited, but can’t figure out why. Frank continues, “Stitched me right up, good as new.”

She lets him go. Now that he’s no longer retreating, she can’t help the way her free hand moves to trace the stitches at his cheek. His skin is warm and surprisingly soft. Her touch moves down, following the line of his jaw, stubble tickling at the pads of her fingers.

Maybe she’s delirious from lack of sleep, but it’s like someone else is controlling her hand as it slides down the column of his throat, her own pulse skittering wildly when she finds his. He makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a grunt, but she can’t stop.

Her hand skims further down against the soft cotton of his shirt until her palm is resting flat against his side. She swallows, absentmindedly murmuring a question. “No broken bones?”

“Mmm… Maybe one… or three.”

His gaze is burning, flames of desire licking at both of them. They’re the same height, and it’s impossible to step away from him.

Her heart nearly stops when he reaches forward, strong but graceful fingers skimming the hollow of her neck. She squelches a whimper of disappointment when he withdraws her keys. “You should check on Alyssa.”

Blinking rapidly, she snaps out of her trance, plucking the keys from his fingers. “O-of course.”

The amusement on his face sends an angry zip of energy through her, chased quickly by embarrassment. Abruptly she turns away from him, fumbling with the lock, finally shoving the key in the hole and yanking the door open.

He catches her hand before she can slip too far into the dim apartment. “Hey.” The word is soft, a hushed whisper. He pulls her toward him and captures her lips in a less than gentle kiss. There’s a hunger in him that makes her knees weak. He pulls away, breathing heavily. “Your ass is mine as soon as these ribs heel up.”

Slowly walking away from him, she laughs quietly. “I’m not anybody’s.”

“We’ll see about that, Page.”

It’s a promise. Frank Castle keeps his promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the expression of encouragement ravenofthewasteland


	19. He Couldn't

(idk what this is, definitely inspired by t[his headcanon anon ](http://thekastlediaries.tumblr.com/post/148326069946/headcanon-karen-gets-franks-suit-back-since-he))

There was a little armoire in the back of Foggy’s office, made of cheap particle board with a shiny faux-wood finish. Karen remembered laughing until tears had streamed down her face as Foggy tried to assemble it. He’d been left with three extra screws in the palm of one hand, no idea where they should have gone, swedish instructions hanging limply in the other. The double doors on the front had never quite shut right, one of Karen’s hair ties serving as a latch for the two knobs. It was the last thing Karen attended to, her footsteps echoing off the empty walls as she slipped through the door of her friend’s office. Her last act as an employee of Nelson and Murdock. **  
**

Looping her finger underneath the elastic band, she pulled it away, setting the doors swinging apart. Inside a row of suits jostled at her movement, various patterned ties drooping over their lapels. On more than one occasion Matt and Foggy had represented clients who’d never owned a court appropriate outfit in their life. Keeping a few pieces on hand was just smart for business.

Silently, she slipped the jackets off their hangers, folding them neatly and shoving them down into the last remaining file boxes. She intended to take them down to goodwill, tip them over into the donations bin and dust her hands of this place and what it represented in her life.

It was a deeply satisfying thought, closure. The ache inside of her throbbed occasionally for what she’d lost, the things that’d never gotten a chance to begin. She’d been on the precipice of something with Matt, the faintest flutter of what could be had shivered through her. But then he’d changed, his smiles became forced, his lies more frequent, distraction constantly written all over his face. She’d always felt like an afterthought to him. What they could have had fluttered to the dusty floor along with the damn mask he’d thrust into her fingers. Too little, too late.

Matt only seemed to be an afterthought in her heart these days anyway. The way her breath caught in her throat when she saw the plastic bag in the bottom of the armoire told her that more clearly than she could have expected. The bag was a utilitarian thing, blocky black letters stamped across it said, “Inmate Property.” And she could remember picking it up after Frank’s sham of a trial, the put-upon officer glaring at her angrily as he’d shoved the bag across the counter.

Her signature on the pick-up form had been shaky, hands trembling as she’d clutched Frank’s crumpled suit to her chest. The urge to scream and cry and beat her breast at the injustice in the world all captured inside of her and quivering to be released. She’d held it in, and walked alone back to the office, in a daze of disbelief, dropping the bag like a rock in the bottom of the armoire. It hadn’t even been laundered since the trial.

The bag got shoved on top of the other suits and she hefted them all out into the hall, turning one last time to look at the empty offices. Her finger hesitated on the light switch, an almost relieved breath escaping her as this chapter of her life dissolved into darkness.

* * *

She wasn’t sure what possessed her to keep the thing, but here she was, digging out a wooden hanger from the back of her closet, something old and sturdy to hang the suit on. Its companions were long gone, crumpled up in a box of donations waiting in the dark for someone to come in a lovingly go through them. She just hadn’t been able to let go of the damn collection bag.

She made a space for the garment, listening to the metal of the rod in her closet sing as she quickly slid her own clothes out of the way. She didn’t know what she felt when she saw it hanging there. There were certainly degrees of anger in the swirling emotions in her chest. This was it, all she had of him, and he made it that way. She didn’t exactly know why it pissed her off so much, or why the hurt was sharp and persistent.

She told herself she was just tired, nervous about her new job maybe, wondering if she made the right decision. Her life was a like a coin spinning mid flip, ready to come down at any moment.  For the first time it felt like she had some kind of plan, like she’d finally called heads after a lifetime of losing with tails.  But it was still fucking scary, and she couldn’t help but feel alone. She had no one, not really. The rift with Matt made her feel adrift, pushed Foggy just out of reach. Ben was gone… and so was Frank.

It’s not like she ever expected him to stay, not really. From the moment they’d met, he was pulling away, resisting, fighting against whatever the hell this magnetism was. He hadn’t wanted the things she had to offer, couldn’t have accepted the hope she’d tried so hard to inject into his veins. He wouldn’t have allowed himself that. She’d known he would leave all along. The knowledge didn’t help. He’d asked her to stay once, and she had, but when she’d asked the same of him…

It still smelled like Frank, the fresh scent of soap clinging to the collar, something dark hiding just beneath the lighter notes. He hadn’t worn cologne, no reason to really, but the smell was just… him. She hated herself for leaning down and touching her nose to the soft fabric, felt like a walking cliche pining over someone like Frank. The images that rushed so quickly to the surface overwhelmed her, a tiny sob catching in her throat. She pushed it back down, quickly, slamming her closet door. Out of sight, out of mind. If only that was how these things worked.


	20. Rescued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Tumblr Prompt: ...what about a sort of parallel with Matt and Claire when Claire was kidnapped? Someone grabs Karen and she's trying to stay put together and Frank just goes berserk and then lots of cuddling.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I have like thirty prompts in my draft box on tumblr, and I intend to do them this week. We shall se eh?_

When the bullets tore through the walls of her apartment, she was scared, but she knew what to do. Her reflexes kicked in immediately, and she dropped to the floor, covering her head and shimmying toward the door. Heart beating out of her chest, she slipped into the hallway, curling up into a ball against the unscathed drywall. **  
**

Here she was safe, or as safe as she could be. She had to think of an escape route, but the part of her brain that controlled movement didn’t seem to be working, her legs cramping up beneath her. Hands shaking, she withdrew her handgun, quickly checking the safety and flicking it off. If Frank Castle wanted her dead, well he’d have to get a little closer and stare down the barrel of a gun himself.

The hail of bullets stopped, leaving only the sound of a screaming child echoing through the hall. Karen made a small prayer, hoping that no one had gotten hurt because of her. The lights in the hall flickered and went out, an ominous sign for sure. It shook the paralysis out of Karen’s limbs, and she heaved herself up off the floor.

She cursed everything she’d read in books, quickly realizing that sudden bursts of adrenaline did nothing positive for a terrified person. Her hands still shook nearly uncontrollably, her heart fluttering in her chest like it might take off and fly away at any moment. She struggled to control her breathing, to quiet it, as she crept down the hall.

The guards were gone. Karen felt sick thinking about what had happened to them. They shouldn’t have been trying to protect her. It was useless with the kinds of enemies she had. Maybe it wasn’t Frank, maybe it was Fisk. The thought didn’t give her much comfort, neither option would result in anything but her certain demise.

She got to the end of the hall, hearing the faintest whisper of footsteps coming around the corner. She cocked her gun, squaring her stance, fully prepared to go down fighting. But she didn’t get a chance, the gun was knocked away before she even saw her attackers, a sharp pain at her temple giving way to total blackness.

* * *

Frank watched them haul her out of the building, limp like a rag doll hanging over one of the men’s shoulder. His nostrils flared angrily, the sights of his gun unable to get a clear shot at her kidnapper. He pulled back, methodically packing up his guns and shouldering the bag.

He was quick, using a rope to scale down the side of the building rather than take the stairs. The dipshits he followed made it easy for him. They were too relaxed, dumping Karen in the back of one of their vans like a sack of potatoes, stopping to smoke and shoot the shit.

Frank took three of them out silently, stragglers hanging around the back of the van. Their necks snapped like dry twigs under his hands, falling to the ground in an inelegant heap. Whoever hired these pricks should have been more discerning about their muscle.

* * *

Karen tasted copper. It coated her tongue thickly, triggering sudden nausea. It was dark when she opened her eyes, so dark that for one panicked moment she was afraid she couldn’t see. The fear subsided when she saw a pinhole of light coming from a couple feet away.

She twisted toward it, grunting in pain when she realized her hands were tied behind her back, thick rope chafing the skin of her wrists. Her ankles too, roped together painfully, her feet bare. She fought her bonds, trying like hell to loosen the ropes, but it was useless and only resulted in painful lacerations.

Too afraid to scream, she scooted toward the only source of light, heart thundering in her chest as she watched it blink in and out of existence. Something was moving in front of the hole, rapidly as it blocked the light and moved away. She wanted to call out for help, but feared her captor would be the only one to hear it, and then what?

The flickering light stopped, going dark indefinitely. The sound of metal scraping sent her heart into her throat, but she steeled herself. She would kick and scratch and scream to the bitter end. 

A door in front of her swung open, her eyes going blind from the sudden light of a street lamp. She felt a hand on her ankle, pulling her toward the exit, and kicked viciously at it. “Get your hands off of me!”

Surprisingly, the grip loosened and fell away. She blinked, willing her eyes to quickly readjust to the light. The sound of many pairs of feet running filled her ears, and the person in front of her cursed softly before grabbing her leg and dragging her out of the van.

In one swift move she was up over his back in a fireman’s carry. She bounced against the angles of his shoulders, the breath going out of her as he ran, much to her confusion, in the opposite direction of all the noise.

* * *

Frank didn’t know who the hell was after the blonde woman, but sure a shit they were persistent as hell. His lungs were beginning to give out, his physical conditioning not really up to hauling a fully grown woman while he ran from a group of mercenaries. He ducked into an alley, sliding her down before turning to dig through his weapons bag.

Something hard came down in the middle of his back, nearly knocking the breath out of him. He turned, looking up to see a very angry Karen Page ready to slam her tied-together fists down on him a second time.

Ducking out of the way, he slipped his hand down to his boot, unsheathing his knife. “Ma’am, listen–”

“You killed, Reyes, and now you want me. Well, I’m not gonna make it easy for you.” She lunged at him, hopping awkwardly with her feet tied together. 

Frank twisted to catch her before she fell, throwing his knife out of the way. Her fists landed with a painful thud in the middle of his chest, both of them falling to the ground. Frank banded his arms around her tightly to prevent any sudden movements. “Shh, shh, just listen. It wasn’t me. I swear.”

He could feel her heart beating against his chest, terror shivering through her limbs. He was lucky she hadn’t been armed, because she was determined as hell to do him some damage. She twisted in his grip, raising her face just far enough away to look at him.

His eyes plead with her to believe him, the set of his jaw not changing one bit as he repeated his earlier claim. “It wasn’t me.” He swallowed, thinking of the few times alone he’d had with her before this. She’d been the only person to look at him with anything other than disgust since his life had fallen apart. God, of all people he didn’t want to think he was capable of this bullshit… He took a deep breath. “I don’t hurt innocent people.”

He felt her relax, the tiniest bit, the stored energy in her muscles draining away. Gently he rolled her off of him, and picked up his knife. She tensed when he approached. “Just wanna get those ropes off, ma’am.”

She held her breath as he sawed at the rope around her ankles, gasping in relief when it fell away. He made short work of the bindings around her wrists too, watching her closely as she rubbed feeling back into her extremities. She seemed to be doing okay.

He reached down into his bag, pulling out two rifles, clicking the clips into place. Her eyes grew wide, mouth turning into a horrified oh. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Those pieces of shit that took you are about half a mile behind us and should be rounding that corner in a couple of seconds. Now, if you’ll just move behind that dumpster–”

“No way. Give me a gun!”

One of his eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t argue with her, pulling out a loaded handgun for her. She took it from him unquestioningly, checking the chamber and the safety. He was surprised and more than a little impressed. “Now will you go behind the dumpster?”

She nodded, following his instruction.

* * *

The men were dead, every last one of them, and Karen hadn’t fired a shot. Frank had been like a machine, one bullet per man, straight to the head. She’d watched in horrified fascination from her hiding spot as he’d taken them out.

They were professionals, dressed head to toe in black, flack jackets covering their chests, guns with silencers swinging at their sides as they’d ran, and yet they’d been no match for Frank.

When all was silent, she tiptoed from behind the dumpster, watching him take his gun apart and shove it back into the canvas bag, “Castle” stamped across the side. He must have made a visit home. The thought pained her, remembering the way the house had been, all the evidence of a happy life scattered between the rooms.

He turned to her, his gaze panning down her body. She shivered at the intensity of his look, no sign on his face of what he was thinking. A frown formed when he got to her feet. “Shit, you’re barefoot.” Without a word, he shouldered the bag and stalked toward her. “Ma’am, I’m gonna give you fair warning this time, so you don’t try to brain me with the butt of that pistol. I’m about to pick you up.”

The words had barely registered before she felt his hands on her, this time lifting her gently, one arm hooked under her knees, the other firmly supporting her back. Her arms instinctively went around his neck. She felt hysteria bubbling up inside of her. Perhaps she was still unconscious in the back of that van, dreaming that a wanted man was holding her in a bridal carry as they snuck out of a dark alley.

He was headed back to her apartment, so it seemed. She twisted in his arms. “It’s not safe.”

“You got a better idea? ‘Cause I’m all out of places to go.”

* * *

Frank set Karen down gently in front of the glass-windowed door, watching curiously as she fished a key from beneath her blouse. The light winked off the silver chain around her neck as she bent to unlock the door.

The inside of Nelson and Murdock’s offices were so strangely quiet at night, almost ghostly with the muted orange light filtering in through the blinds. Frank looked around, giving the place a cursory once over. It seemed empty enough. “Never thought I’d be back here.”

Karen watched him slowly move around the office. He looked so tired, his shoulders drooping, eyes heavy with exhaustion. This man had saved her life, for no reason. She walked up behind him, sure to make a little noise so he wouldn’t be surprised.

Cautiously, she moved around to face him, one hand moving to rest against his cheek. Her thumb brushed at the circles under his eyes. “You saved me, Frank… why?”

She moved closer, stepping fully into his personal bubble, the warmth of his body radiating in little waves toward her. For the first time since she’d known him, she saw fear flash across his features, vulnerability lighting behind his eyes for just a moment. He didn’t answer her.

She stepped closer, sliding her hand down to the his fluttering pulse as if that would give her some kind of response. Both of her hand on his chest now, she leaned forward, laying her ear against his chest. His heartbeat didn’t tell her much more, the sound of blood rushing in and out of the lifegiving organ was comforting to her though. She let out an involuntary sigh, melting a little when his arms came up to encircle her.

“Because you helped me.”

When he finally did speak, the sound of it rumbled through his chest, a pleasant vibration moving through Karen. She’d never felt safer, folded into his arms, standing in the dark barefoot. She wished the clocks would stop, so she could have sufficient time to unravel the meaning of it all, to figure out just what the hell this man meant to her.

As if reading her thoughts, he pulled away. “Call your friend, the lawyer. He can protect you.”

She blinked, feeling bereft at the absence of his arms, confused as to what he was talking about. “Foggy?”

Frank shook his head. “The other one.”

“Matt?”

He nodded. “He can keep you safe.”

“Matt? I don’t under–” 

Frank grabbed his bag and headed for the door, not taking a second to look back. 

She ran after him, stopping in the hallway. “Frank!” 

The punisher was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may not have been exactly what the prompter intended, but I think I liked the way it turned out. Please let me know what you think. :D


	21. Fight for Your City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Kastle prompt: they meet at a protest/rally and feel attraction fron afar so mutual friends decide to set them up on a date**
> 
>  
> 
> _This might be a leeeetle different from the prompt, but it's what came out ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯_

Karen is hot, the press of people all around her making her dizzy. She shouldn’t have come. How effective is it really, standing around, waving their signs? Wouldn’t her time be better spent holed up in her office writing a scathing article? People are starting to get anxious, a little ripple of audible dissent traveling through the crowd. **  
**

She can feel it, that electric sizzle in the air when things are about to snap, about to spill over the edges into chaos. She really wishes she hadn’t come. She whisper-yells at the woman standing next to her, “Why did you insist on bringing me?”

Elektra looks back at her, a spark of mischief and good intentions lighting her dark brown eyes. “You’re a damn good reporter, Karen, but nothing beats first hand experience. Tell the people what’s happening here, that their fellow citizens still care, that we’re still here.”

Karen shakes her head, still unsure of what help she could possibly be if she has a panic attack. She’d never known just exactly how claustrophobic she was until people started pushing up against her from every angle. She glares at Elektra. “You think Fisk cares about all of this? You think my measly little article in the Bulletin is going to mean anything against the paid tripe that is going to appear in The Times?”

Elektra merely shakes her head, turning to join the chant of her fellow citizens. “This is our home! We won’t go!”

The chants get louder, movements around her becoming more and more erratic. Karen is about to start looking for an escape route when the noise suddenly dies down, all movement arresting. There’s a man with a bull-horn climbing up onto his makeshift stage, the roof of a news van.

He looks out over the roiling mass, squinting in the bright light of the street lamp so close to his head. Karen is mesmerized, along with everyone around her. The man is speaking passionately into the bull-horn, gesturing emphatically to make his point. “… and it’s our community that makes this city great, not high rise condos and billion dollar corporations sucking the fucking life out of the streets. We will not be intimidated. He can send his thugs, and he can bribe crooked polititions, but he will not take our homes!”

The crowd roars, and Karen’s heart beats in her chest like a thousand war drums. She’s already piecing together her description of the night. She doesn’t ever want to forget the set of the man’s jaw, the burning determination in his eyes, or the sound of his gravelly yet beautiful voice echoing in her ears.

Elektra nudges her between the ribs, a wry little smile on her lips. “That’s Frank… want to meet him?”

Karen doesn’t hesitate, nodding emphatically. “I want an interview.”

* * *

How did this happen? It feels more lol a date than an interview. Karen doesn’t know how she ended up sitting across the table from Frank Castle, sharing a plate of fries and a pot of coffee at two in the morning, but she’s clearly not conducting an interview. Her pen and pad are laying long forgotten on the seat beside her.

She’s frowning, the heat of an argument starting to swirl inside of her. “But how do you expect the vulnerable people in your neighborhood to fight against someone like Fisk? The elderly, the single mothers who can’t stay home from work to watch over things, the people who desperately need the money Fisk is offering?”

Frank shook his head. “You’re missing what I said before. It’s not about individuals protecting their homesteads. This isn’t the wild west. We have to all link arms and stand against the person who is trying to destroy an entire neighborhood. One person selling out and walking away because they're scared is like pulling a thread on a sweater,. If you're not careful the whole fucking thing will unravel.”

She shakes her head, snatching up a fry and popping it into her mouth. “That’s a nice sentiment Frank, but I don’t see a lot of people out there like you, and I don’t think you can stand guard over ten city blocks all by yourself.”

He smiles at her, a truly unexpected reaction. Her stomach flutters, and she tells herself that it’s the greasy fries coating her insides and not the the way one corner of his mouth slants up first that sends the butterflies out in droves. “Come on, Page. You don’t think I could take on Fisk?” 

She gets the feeling that he’s showing some restraint here. At least he’s not flexing his muscles, which are clearly ripping underneath his soft cotton tee. She secretly wishes he would. Clearing her throat, she reaches for the coffee mug to hide the warm hue of her cheeks behind. “I don’t doubt you would try…”

Frank’s expression changes. There are no longer hints of amusement lining his features. It’s all serious business now. “Listen, whatever you write, just make it the truth.  We’ve got enough lies being spread by the media, and it’s killing the people of this city. I’m definitely not the only person out here fighting, but we need people like you, people who have a way with words.”

This flusters Karen, her heartbeat picking up it’s pace. She’s always known that a certain amount of responsibility lies in her job, but seeing all those faces tonight in the crowd, seeing Frank’s passion as he rallied everyone behind him. It makes it all the more intimidating. She’s terribly afraid she’s going to let them all down. “Fisk is just… he’s so powerful. I don’t know how any of this can make a difference, and it’s putting people’s lives in danger. Is it even worth it?”

Frank’s eyes darken. “There are already people that have died at his hands. Innocents whose blood ran in the streets because he wants to line his pockets with money. He cannot be allowed to continue.”

His words make her shiver. There is danger in them, their certainty like the edge of a knife slicing through the air. Something tells her that Frank will make sure, one way or another, that Fisk’s malignancy stops, even if it means Frank himself has to reach into the giant man’s chest and rip out his heart. The thought gives Karen a little thrill. “Something tells me you have more planned than a few protests, Mr. Castle.”

"Maybe, maybe not, at least nothing I'd tell an on-the-clock reporter." There it is again, his smile. This time it’s secretive, and he’s looking at her from under the bill of his cap like he’s afraid if she looks in his eyes she’ll really see what he’s about. “Those overgrown boys running around in their footed pajamas are doing a piss-poor job of protecting this city. Maybe it's time for something different.”

The waitress catches her eye, coming over with the bill. Karen digs around in her purse, pulling out her wallet to pay. When the waitress leaves, she fishes one last thing from her bag. A business card. It slides across the table silently. “Anything you need, Mr. Castle. I’m here to help.”


	22. Every Six Seconds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nurse/Doctor Kastle AU

Her mind was spinning, anxiety crawling up her spine and creeping into her skull. She felt her breath getting short, the halls of the hospital closing in on her. Were the awful fluorescent lights suddenly brighter? She blinked, looking down at the chart in her hands, the letters and numbers swimming in and out of focus.

Shit. She needed to get out of here, just for a minute, to catch her breath. The air was thick and muggy. So many bodies so close together, noises coming from every direction, distraught children screaming, nervously impatient twenty-somethings pacing the narrow halls, worrying about being uninsured, the chuckle of cops flirting with nurses while they waited for their collars to get stitched up. It all clanged against her ears, making her heart beat just a touch too fast. She couldn’t hear herself think. 

Taking a deep breath through her nose, she held it for a few seconds, letting it out in a controlled and inconspicuous stream. It worked, at least for the time being, her thoughts jumping back in line, heartbeat steadying.

She passed the chart off to one of the nurses, rattling off a simple course of treatment for a feverish child. The mother glared up at her, eyes narrowing at Karen’s simple command to give the child an over the counter fever reducer. Could the woman tell? Could she see just how overwhelmed Karen felt?

Karen dug her heels in. No, this woman couldn’t possibly know. She was probably just in a bad mood. Her daughter had a mild fever, caused by an obvious ear infection, one that the child had already received medication for. No doubt, the woman had waited hours in triage, getting pushed to the back of the line over and over again in favor of more serious patients. Karen could still see the bloody stump her last patient had been sporting in place of his index finger. 

There had been plenty of patients before the screaming little girl.

Not for the first time, Karen slipped her hand down into the pocket of her lab-coat, fingernail tracing the edge of cellophane packaging tucked down deep into its recesses. She turned and made a bee-line for the stairwell, letting the door slam behind her.

-

Frank heard the door slam, his head snapping up curiously. Unexpected loud noises were never a good sign in the ER. He saw a flash of blonde hair disappearing through the narrow security glass, and cursed softly to himself. “Shit.”

No sooner had the word left his mouth, than he felt a hand light on his shoulder. “Pay up, Frankie. I told you she wouldn’t last past midnight.”

Claire smiled, her eyes dancing. She had won the pool, again. She had a sixth sense when it came to these things, had seen so many doctors come through the revolving door of the ER in the past five years that she had it down to five minutes when they would snap. She claimed it was a complicated algorithm involving many variables. Exhaustion, experience, demeanor, what kind of shoes they wore, et cetera… but Frank was pretty sure the woman was just psychic. He’d been working here for two years and not once had he ever gotten closer than Claire.

But there had been something about the new blonde doctor, the way she stood ramrod straight when making rounds, the set of her mouth when listening intently to a patient, the way her hair fell over her shoulder as she looked down to write something on a chart… He shook his head. Not that _that_ particular habit had anything to do with her fortitude. He’d just thought she was made of stronger stuff. Hell, he supposed he’d underestimated the insanity of the ER on Halloween.

Frowning, he slipped a hand down into his scrubs pocket, pulling out a crisp twenty. Claire nearly jumped over the counter of the nurse’s station, snatching it from his fingers gleefully. “I can’t believe you picked 3 a.m.” She eyed Frank suspiciously. “As a matter of fact, you usually lose because you pick too early… Those big blue eyes making you get soft on me, Frank?”

He ignored her gentle ribbing, turning back to finish up his nightly paperwork. His shift was over, the soft pillows and clean sheets of his bed like a siren call begging him to come home. He tucked the files away, grabbing his coat from the back of the wobbly rolly chair, the keys jangling in its pocket. He needed to get home before the sun came up, get some fucking rest before coming in for his shift tomorrow evening. 

He yawned as the door banged shut behind him, his footsteps echoing against the plaster as he dragged himself up the stairs in the exact opposite direction he should have been headed. Claire wasn’t exactly wrong about a certain pair of blue eyes.

-

Karen liked it on the roof. It wasn’t quiet exactly, the sound of the city swelling around her still, sirens bouncing off the other buildings as they brought more patients to lay down at her sore feet, but it was peaceful. If she squinted she could even see a few stars in the night sky.

Absentmindedly she traced the lines of the cigarette package in her pocket, pulling the thing out to inspect it more closely. She hadn’t smoked since she was an undergrad, frazzled and needing something to help her decompress, some ritual to signal the official end of an all-nighter as she walked home from the library.

Pulling one of the slim cigarettes out of the package, she held it to her nose, sniffing the faintly sweet aroma of unlit tobacco. Twirling it, she settled the tube in the vee between her middle and index finger. It was like riding a bike, the body language involved. Her shoulders dropped, free hand resting gently on her hip. She smiled softly to herself, remembering how she’d thought it would make her look older when she was a teen, copying the movements of the women on the corner.

She brought the butt to her mouth, gently settling it between her lips. If she had a light, she would definitely smoke the damn thing, for old time’s sake. Maybe it would calm her rattling nerves.

“Haven’t you heard? Smoking kills.” The voice was gravelly, coming from the now open door to the roof. 

She jumped, dropping the offensive item to the ground. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Shit, you scared me.”

He stepped closer to her, walking through a pool of yellowish light. He was familiar to Karen, his pale blue scrubs and hospital ID badge informing her that he worked here. She squinted in the dark, trying to make out his features.

He bent down, picking up the discarded cigarette. He shook his head. “One person dies every six seconds from a tobacco related disease.” His actions belied his words, fingers caressing the slim white tube lovingly. “That’s ten people every minute.”

Karen nostrils flared. It was downright indecent how graceful his hands were.

She could make out his features now, the neatly trimmed beard, the dark eyes. He was the frowny raincloud, the nurse who never said anything conversationally to the doctors, just nodded and did his job, and did it well. He was in the ER with her tonight, staunching the flow of blood from her very first gunshot wound. He’d been cool and calm, his very presence helping her keep her head above water.

Self-consciously, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Hey, uh, thanks for helping me with that bullet wound earlier… I, uh…” She stammered. Why the hell had she come here after med-school? She should have stayed in Connecticut. She cleared her throat. “I’ve never actually seen —” She stopped abruptly, hysteria suddenly bubbling up. “Oh God, what the hell am I doing here? I’m in over my head.”

Arching one eyebrow, he peered at her. “Excuse me, ma’am, but that’s a bunch of bullshit.“

His words were matter of fact, and he didn’t even look at her, instead focusing on something unseen in the distance.

"Excuse me?”

“You belong here just like anyone else, and so far you’re doing a damn fine job, ma'am. Stabilized that asshole and got him straight up to the OR, didn’t you?”

Her eyes widened, the impending bout of self doubt, halting in it’s tracks. “I’d never even seen a gunshot wound before tonight. I wanted to puke.” She shook her head. “And it wasn’t even the gore, I can handle the gore. I’ve seen everything there is to see on the inside of a human body. It’s just… the idea that something so small could just… end everything. It was overwhelming. That sounds like a fine job to you?”

“Sounds like a start. You got past it.”

She wanted to tell him he was the reason, that having him at her elbow, quietly handing her what she needed, never once looking away from the bloody mess in front of them was why she hadn’t lost her cool. “God, I bet you see that kind of thing all the time.”

He let out a low chuckle, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a lighter. The flame flashed in front of his face. He looked like a villain in a children’s story, ever so briefly. Karen shivered. The smoke curled around the both of them as he took a long drag, blowing it out slowly. “I’ve seen more than a few, myself, ma’am.”

Her nose twitched at the smell. It was pungent and repulsive, and yet… a part of her wanted to snatch it from between his fingers and draw all the poison down into her lungs, to live off of it. She pushed away the craving, focusing instead on his words. “Does it really happen so much here?”

He turned to look at her, something just on the tip of his tongue. Karen waited, the silence stretching out between them until she thought it was going to snap, the recoil violently throwing them apart.

Finally, he spoke. “No, not here… In the army. Plenty of bullets to go around over there.”

Suddenly so much about him made sense. His attention to detail, precisely following orders, the quiet indifference on his face when thugs in the ER tried to intimidate him. There had been more than a few criminals to pass through the doors of the hospital, but nothing seemed to phase Nurse Castle. “Were you a medic?”

He shook his head, taking another drag from the tobacco. “Nah, I was a sniper. In a pinch I could dress a wound, but it didn’t come to that very often. When I got back home there wasn’t much use for my rifle, or anything else I learned over there. So…” Another cloud of smoke drifted off into the night. “… here I am.”

There was more, she could hear it in his voice, something ragged along the edges, a pain and anger that he refused to put into words. It intrigued her, but she wasn’t willing to explore it. Instead, she reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone. She sighed. “Smoke break’s over, back to the revolving door of kids who’ve shoved candy corn up their noses and grown men who think throwing knives at each other is a good way to solve disputes.”

Frank smiled again, this time directly at her. It was borderline devastating, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners just a little, one side of his mouth tilted up just a little higher than the other. Oh, the man was certainly handsome. Karen had the strangest need to brush her fingers along the bristle of his jaw.

He saved her the embarrassment, snuffing the cigarette out against the wall behind them and reaching out to give her something. The cool plastic of his lighter was in her palm before she could say anything. “When you go back down, could you let Nurse Temple know she owes me twenty dollars? She’ll know what it’s about.” He flipped the collar of his jacket up and disappeared into the stairwell, calling out behind him, “See you tomorrow, Dr. Page.”

Karen looked down at the little lighter. It was shiny black, a tiny white skull the only thing decorating it. Her fingers still tingled where they’d touched his palm. The jitters were gone. She took a deep breath and turned to descend back into the madness. 


	23. Caress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turning a Fine Line Fic into a one shot :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anisstaranise thanks for the suggestion :D !!

Karen notices early on that he doesn’t like sleeping. He clings to his coffee late into the night like it’s a life raft, circles under his eyes, exhaustion in his hoarse voice.

She doesn’t push, afraid to set this tenuous truce they have crashing down. It feels fragile, the way they sit together in hole-in-the-wall bars, heads bent as they go over leads. Like it could all go up in smoke at any second. She doesn’t push.

He does rest his eyes sometimes, when he’s sitting on her uncomfortable couch, waiting for her to return with medical supplies. It’s the only time she touches him, her fingers gently applying antiseptic, palms smoothing bandages against his almost feverish skin.

His eyes slowly shut, a week of sleeplessness pulling them down like an anchor into a dark ocean. The sound of her incessantly dripping faucet is hypnotic, lulling him into unconsciousness. By the time she returns to his side, arms full of supplies, his breathing has evened out, chest rising and falling in a tranquil rhythm.

She inspects the stitches on his arm, crooked little x’s, self inflicted. She wants to chide him for this, but she knows her own handiwork wouldn’t have been any better, and she’s all he’s got. She bites her tongue, tentatively swiping an alcohol pad against the puffy skin. 

She glances up, checking to see if she’s woken him, but his eyes are still closed, darting back and forth as some dream plays out behind the lids.

The gauze goes on without a whisper, medical tape holding it in place. Karen is so engrossed with the task at hand that she doesn’t notice the way his breathing is becoming labored, the tension creeping into his shoulders.

She turns to put away her supplies, and when she looks at him again there is a pained expression on his face. Brow furrowed, jaw clenched, his nostrils flare as he angrily forces out a breath of air. At first she thinks maybe his injury is bothering him, but the thought is quickly batted away by the sight of his trigger finger twitching, the sheen of sweat gathering along his forehead.

Instinctively she takes a step toward him, ignoring the little rational voice in her head that’s telling her this is dangerous, that he’s dangerous. He’s not a monster, he’s a man, and he’s in obvious pain. She can’t just leave him to it.

She drops down beside him, one hand on his shoulders, her lips softly forming the syllables, “Frank, wake up.”

Her voice doesn’t touch him. Leaning in closer, she rests a palm against his sternum, his rapidly beating heart vibrating under his shirt. He jerks slightly, sending Karen’s own heart into her throat. “F-frank?”

When his eyes open they’re unfocused, darting wildly around the room. In seconds her wrists are encircled by his strong fingers, a fierce yet confused look on his face.

Karen swallows, fighting the trill of fear when his angry expression locks with hers. She swallows, modulating her voice to a soft yet adamant tone. “Frank, breathe, it’s just a dream.”

He blinks, air shuddering from his lungs. The two of them are close still, and his breath is hot against her cheeks. 

“Karen?” It’s the first time he’s ever said her name,and he’s horrified. He loosens his grip, pulling away from her to bury his face in his hands as if he can still see whatever gruesome images haunted his dreams.

Karen massages her wrists, wincing as the blood rushes painfully back into her hands. It’s a discomfort she barely notices, watching as he withdraws even further. He gets up and leaves her alone on the couch, stomping toward the bathroom and slamming the door.

Now she really is afraid. A part of her wonders if this is it, if she’s seen too much of him and he’ll react accordingly, if he’ll put all the walls back up. She shakes her head. She won’t let it happen.

Her knuckles brush softly against the bathroom door, harder when she doesn’t get an immediate response. Feeling brave, she pushes it open.

He’s hunched over the sink, knuckles white as they grip the edge of the counter. Unable to resist, she lays a soothing hand against his back. This time he doesn’t flinch away.

“I see them every time I close my eyes.”

She nods, unable to say anything that would help, instead moving closer. Her hand unconsciously begins to move in circles, some part of her mind willing the transfer of comfort from her body to his.

He continues, dropping his head down. “I’m so god-damned tired.”

There’s nothing she can do, nothing to make the nightmares stop. Her heart aches for him, for every line of exhaustion in the way he stands. “Frank… I’ll always be here to wake you up… if they get really bad.”

He turns, giving her a sad half-smile, rubbing the horror from his eyes. “I might just have to take you up on that, ma'am. But I think I just need a strong cup of coffee right now.”

He moves to brush past her, stopping just inside the doorframe. She can still see the shadows in his eyes. Deep down she’s a caregiver, someone who doesn’t like watching people suffer, her heart seeking out those who need comfort. She can’t help it, just like she can’t help the way she steps forward and throws her arms around his shoulders, capturing him in a tight hug.

He tenses at first, unsure of himself. The feeling is familiar yet foreign. He can barely remember the soft embrace of another person. His own arms come up tentatively, encircling her waist. His nose buried in her hair, he pulls her closer, clinging like his life depends on it, and maybe it does.

When he kisses her it’s desperate, the act of an addict tasting his drug of choice for the first time in years. It’s consuming, his world narrowing down to a single point of light, to her.

Hours later, she lies in his arms, an ear pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, poised to wake him should the sound get too raucous.

Frank snores softly, dreaming of light touches and gentle sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **kastle + caress**
>
>>   
>    _He has nightmares, sweat inducing terrors that imprison him in the darkness, that wrap chains around his torso, press the air out of his lungs._
>> 
>>   _In them he is dying a slow and painful death, watching everyone he’s ever loved get mowed down by live fire, nothing he can do to stop it._
>> 
>>   _Before, the visions lasted eons, time standing still in the abyss of his dreams, no power on earth strong enough to set him free._
>> 
>>   _But now there’s Karen, and with one stroke of a cool finger across his damp brow it’s like the spell is broken, cool air rushing into his lungs as he comes back to reality, to her._
>> 
>>  
>> 
>> _He could cry with relief when he opens his eyes, but instead he wraps his arms around her, holding her in a fierce embrace as the clamorous knocking of his heart slows to a peaceful patter._  
> 


	24. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Five line fic -- > One Shot  
> **
> 
>  
> 
> _Hot nights in the city are unbearable, the air thick and sticky with humidity, her a/c nothing but a barely sputtering hunk of scrap._
> 
>  
> 
> _She gets twisted up in the sheets, the material clinging to her damp body like a second skin._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _She’s taken to going up to the roof at midnight, like clockwork, to stand in her thin shift and let the cool air whip around her._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Frank catches this phenomenon once, watching from the adjacent rooftop through the glass of his binoculars, her building a pit stop on his nightly patrol._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _She looks like an angel to him, translucent material swirling around her like wings, hair glowing in the moonlight like a halo._

He wonders if the ethereal night dress is something she wears often. It floats around her weightlessly, frilly lace edges brushing against the tops of her thighs. It’s something out of time, an angelic relic from a sepia toned past.

His fingers are damp against the binoculars, faintly sweaty palms telling a tale he’s been trying to ignore for too damn long. He should put them away, snap them back into their case and move on to the next nightly stop But there’s something about the way she’s standing, palms up in silent supplication, face upturned toward the full moon.

Softly he huffs out an irritated grunt, his nostrils flaring as an unwanted warmth tingles in the pit of his stomach. He can see how smooth her skin is, even from so far away, glistening in the humidity. His fingers twitch, the muscles of his jaw tightening as he clenches his teeth. He needs to leave.

Suddenly the wind whips up, plastering the dress to her body, a soft shadow at the vee of her thighs drawing his gaze. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to uncloud his mind. It’s dizzying, the unexpected wave of longing he feels for her.

He drops the binoculars, blinking away the sensuous image of her beckoning him, her parted lips releasing a muted sigh. This heat wave his getting to him, primal urges rising up through his body, heart pounding like a war drum.

He turns away, grabbing his patrol bag and slinging it over his shoulder with a little more force than necessary. It’s the heat that has him all riled up, the oven-like temperature of the swirling night air. He feels restless in his own skin, the flack jacket strapped to his chest suddenly heavy and oppressive, everything is just too close.

He’s wound tight on the way to his next stop, every sound in the shadows making him tense. A rat scurries from beneath a precariously stacked pile of trash and his pistol is out, safety off, finger on the trigger before he even realizes what he’s doing.

He tucks it back under his jacket, marveling at how he almost spattered rodent all over the side of the street. He’s not normally trigger happy, in spite of what his detractors might say. Bullets should never be wasted, they draw too much attention.

He decides to pack it in early tonight, turning on his heel to head home. This restless energy needs to be spent, and hitting the makeshift gym in his rathole of a hideout seems like the best way to end the night.

Hours later, he’s sweaty and sore, his lungs burning from intensive calisthenics. He should be exhausted, in for a night of dead sleep, but he still feels like he drank a gallon of coffee, heart jumping in his chest, an unnamable urge still settled in the pit of his stomach. 

He tosses his sweat soaked workout clothes to the floor, moving toward his bathroom. He should probably run the water cold tonight, for obvious reasons, but his screaming muscles beg for the comfort of a hot shower, and the last thing he needs is to be more awake. So he lets it run hot, steam filling the tiny bathroom, condensation collecting on all the flat surfaces.

The water pounds against his back, heat penetrating deep down until he can feel it in his bones. His eyes drift shut, tendrils of drowsiness creeping in.

Dropping his guard is a mistake, the first thing appearing behind his eyes the image of Karen alone on the building, nightdress plastered to her lithe body.

Only this time he isn’t simply a voyeur. She knows he’s looking down, and her hands drift across her body, lightly skimming over her breasts, nipples erect and visible through the thin fabric. She catches the hem in her hand, tugging the garment up until her creamy thighs are completely exposed.

Frank’s breathing hitches. It’s so real, the way her mouth drops open, a faint little whimper of desire issuing from her vocal chords as her hand the little mound of soft curls, fingers finding their way into the slippery cleft.

Her eyes drift shut, and it’s a cue. Taking himself in hand, he strokes in time to her movements, his gaze flickering between the expressions of pleasure on her face and the movements of her hands.

She’s flushed, cheeks pink with arousal, blood rushing to the surface of her skin as her breathing becomes ragged. Frank feels so close, a sweet pleasure just on the periphery of his consciousness. He reaches for it, watching the way the muscles in her abdomen clench, the way she shudders against her own stroking fingers. It is like death, the look of absolute pleasure on her face so close to that of pain.

He dies right along with her, spasms of pleasure shaking his body, hot proof of his activity spilling out against the palm of his hand even as the water washes it away.

He opens his eyes, inches away from the cracked tile, brought back to this awful reality. He’s angry with himself, for doing that to her, for using her image in that way. “Fuck.”

It’s a curse softly whispered, turning back into the hot spray of the shower. He’s a man, he supposes, with needs like any other. But damn it, it still feels like a violation. 

She deserves to be more than a player in some juvenile fantasy. He resolves not to be such a creep in the future. If he wants to check up on her, he’ll do the gentlemanly thing and knock on her damn door after sweeping the blocks around her building.

He’s surprised by the thought, a little thrill of fear zipping through him. He snorts in amusement. Imagine that, Frank Castle afraid of a willowy blonde. He supposes stranger things have happened, even if he can’t think of them.


	25. Almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt request from a list of romance tropes: ALMOST KISSING" FOR KASTLE PLEASE AND THANK YOU. :)

Karen Page wasn’t a drinker, not really. A shot or three after work with a few friends, just enough to feel loose and uninhibited, that was one thing, but this losing herself in the murky depths of amber liquid wasn’t her deal. The dimly lit bar was the last place she would bump into anyone she knew. There wasn’t a chance in hell a saintly lawyer would be leaning up against the grimy juke box, and it was just as unlikely that his gregarious blond cohort would come bursting from the men’s room, flush with the warmth of alcohol running through his veins, a goofy grin on his face as he begged her to play darts.

No, this place wasn’t Josie’s, not anywhere close. That was the whole idea of coming into this shithole. Talking was not on the fucking agenda.

She’d given up on ordering shots hours earlier, instead talking the surly bartender out of a filthy streaked tumbler and a bottle of his cheapest whiskey. It had only taken her a couple of seconds to convince herself that the alcohol would kill whatever germs lay lurking in the crystal grooves of the unwashed glass. And it felt good, the way the liquid burned going down her throat, settling in her stomach like heavy poison. She would forget, soon, the way the date on the calendar stared at her accusingly all day, the way every little thing reminded her of the worst day of her life all those years ago. She would forget the way his face looked, pale and waxy as the light behind his eyes slowly faded away.

She poured herself another glass, downing it and tipping the bottle over one more time. Time came unstuck when the alcohol really started filtering through her, the clock’s ticking fading into the background. Soon this day would be over, and all she would have to remind her of it would be a pounding headache and a sour stomach. Good.

She slammed the tumbler down on the scarred wood of the bar, earning a dirty look from the bartender. His twisted expression swam back and forth. She blinked, grimacing at the thick haze of cigarette smoke floating around her. Hell, she was going to smell like death tomorrow. Wasn’t there some law about smoking indoors? Foggy would know.

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through her recent calls. Foggy’s round face came and went as she scrolled. Instead, she stopped on an unsaved number, finger hovering over the digits. He wouldn’t answer, she knew that. She just wanted to hear the sound of his voice, to hear the gruff and politely formal address when he realized it was her. She wanted to ask him if she would ever forget what it was like to take another man’s life.

She tapped the touch screen, holding her breath as the number began to ring. Too late, she remembered that talking wasn’t something she really wanted to do, not like this, not three sheets to the wind and on the verge of crying.

She was paralyzed, holding the phone up to her ear, breath caught in her chest as she waited for him to answer. She just wanted to hear his voice, that’s all, to know there was someone out there who could understand. 

He did answer on the tenth ring, not saying a word though. She could hear him breathing on the end of the line, waiting for her to say something first. It was like a game, listening to each other’s breath, strangely intimate and isolating at the same time.

She could see him, in her mind’s eye, face mottled purple with bruises, hair clipped short, mouth turned downward in irritation. If she closed her eyes she could lean forward and breathe him in, the faint aroma of cigarettes lying underneath the much stronger scent of freshly brewed coffee and soap. It had been too long since their last contact.

“Talk to me, ma’am. Is something wrong?”

She nearly dropped the phone, fumbling until she had a better grip. Her vocal cords were frozen, words trapped in her lungs. “F-frank.”

His name came out on a sob, every last bit of strength in her crumbling. The alcohol hadn’t helped. It made things harder to deal with, pushing all the emotions to the surface, making her feel unstable and close to spontaneous combustion. She needed someone to hold her together.

“Tell me where you are.”

-

She waited outside, the cold wind somewhat sobering. The bartender had confiscated the bottle of whiskey at the sight of her tears, deciding an emotional patron was more than he wanted to deal with at one in the morning.

She leaned against the brick edifice, silent tears still streaming down her cheeks, feeling so fucking tired. She just wanted to lay down, to stop holding herself up, stop holding all of it together. The easy smiles, the cute little outfits and her kitten heels, it was all a cheap edifice built to keep everyone else unaware. She was the bright eyed receptionist, the untiringly sweet friend, the dumb blonde who fell for a liar. It was getting too heavy, her arms like noodles every night when she got home, exhaustion in her very soul.

She slid down along the wall until she was crouched on the sidewalk, legs curled up beneath her. The concrete was cold and a little damp. It was all she could do not to slump down further and just lie in the filth of the street, letting sleep overtake her. 

Frank was the only one who saw what she really was. Sure, the details were still a mystery to him, but he’d seen right past all the bullshit, right into the sadness that lurked inside of her, the desperate need. And she’d felt… accepted.

As if her thoughts had conjured him, Frank materialized from the shadows, dark cap pulled down low over his eyes. He was silent as a shadow, moving toward her, gently lifting her off the ground.

Under the streetlamp he looked terrifying, dark shadows cast across his face. She was so happy to see him, to feel his touch against her skin as he swept her hair out of her face. She knew she looked a mess, nose red, eyes puffy and bloodshot from crying. But God, it was good to see him.

Without thinking, she threw her arms around him, nose buried in the crook of his neck. He smelled exactly like she’d imagined, the collar of his shirt tickling her nose. And he was warm too, vital and alive against her. She could feel his chest rising and falling with his measured breathing, his heart beating against her.

After a brief hesitation, his arms came up, holding her gently in the golden light of the street lamp. He cleared his throat. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m drunk,” she mumbled forlornly against his skin.

“I can see that.” He waited, hands moving slowly across her body in search of injury, methodical yet gentle. “You’re not hurt?”

She shook her head, slowly easing out of his embrace. “No.”

He narrowed his eyes, peering down at her. “You sure about that?”

One hand was at her neck now, fingers resting along the column of her throat, callused thumb feeling her fluttering pulse. He was looking at her, really looking at her, with those deep brown eyes, so full of sadness. It made her want to cry all over again. She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to meet his serious gaze any longer. “Tell me I’m not a monster, Frank.”

If she had opened her eyes again she would have seen the look of confusion flash across Frank’s face. Suddenly it was like they were in an alternate universe, and she was asking him for absolution. It was ludicrous to him. And yet, her eyes were squeezed shut, pulse thundering against his fingers, pain slashed across her features. She needed to hear it, even if it were from someone as morally dubious as himself. “Pardon me, Miss Page, but you’re just about the furthest thing from a monster as anyone I’ve ever met.”

His words didn’t help, she shuddered, gasping out a confession. “I killed him.”

He knew, of course. Wilson Fisk’s man had died at her hands. It hadn’t been hard for him to figure out. As far as he was concerned she’d been doing the city a favor, ridding it of yet another scumbag. “That you did, and I imagine Wesley deserved every one of those bullets you put in his chest.”

Pulling away from him, eyes wide with shock, she shook her head yet again. “Not Wesley… It’s not… I know he was going to kill me… ” She buried her face in her hands, backing further away. He almost didn’t hear her next words. “I killed my brother. What kind of monster kills her own brother?”

He was speechless, watching as she fell apart in front of him, tears streaming down her anguish filled face. “Frank, I loved him when we were kids, I did, but… he got mean when he drank, and he would hit his wife, knock her to the ground. One time - “ She tried to catch her breath, the words coming fast and hard between tears. “– one time he hit her so hard he blew out her eardrum. She was like a rag doll, just helpless, and I - I - I took our dad’s gun, and I just wanted to make him stop, I didn’t… oh god, I didn’t –”

Frank reached for her again, this time taking her in his arms of his own volition. She was near hysterical, words almost unintelligible between her sobs. He held her close. “Shh, shh, it’s ok…” 

She quieted, pulling back to look at him again. “Can you still say it? Do you still think I’m not a monster?”

She looked so broken under the street lamp, tearstained face streaked with mascara, eyes still sparkling, grief tearing at her from the inside out. He knew the feeling well, woke up with it sitting in his chest every morning. Her pain called out to him. He brushed away a stray tear, hands pausing to cup her face gently. “Miss Page, you are a lot of things… a monster isn’t one of them.” 

“Yeah?”

The single word was soft, barely a puff of air escaping her lips. Frank found his fingers under her chin, tilting her face up toward his. He was caught, by the desire to give comfort and to take it. His thumb brushed her bottom lip, and he leaned in closer. 

He could taste her already, lips still inches apart, vulnerability in the scent of whiskey on her breath. It trembled out against his skin as she let out a shaky sigh. She was drunk, and he wasn’t. 

Regretfully he pulled away, reaching instead to tuck her arm beneath his. “Come on, Page, let’s get you home and get some coffee in you. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

She complied, following his lead. “And if I don’t feel better?”

They walked silently, Frank contemplating this strange new dynamic. “I’ll be right there with you, not feeling better, we’ll make quite the pair.”

She laughed, tucking herself into his side. She still felt like shit, but at least she wasn’t alone.

**A/N: This is obviously not too reliant on canon regarding Karen’s past, specifically what we know about her brother buuuuuuut… Idk idk**


	26. Just a little Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr Prompt: a tipsy karen @ frank: "your hands are so much larger than mine"

The wine was sweet, almost cloying. Dessert wine. Karen drank it fast to avoid the lingering taste on the tip of her tongue. It was meant to go with the absurd excuse for a wedding cake sitting in the middle of the reception, to complement the high density buttercream icing slipping off the pedestrian piece of vanilla cake on her plate. God, she hated weddings. **  
**

When Ellison had suggested she broaden her journalistic horizons she’d nodded eagerly, not knowing that meant he would push her on over into covering the “society” section of the little newspaper. She felt the underpaid little sister of TMZ writers, covering all of these social events. Galas, charity balls, and even an NYPD luncheon to raise money for widows of police officers had come across her desk. It all seemed like a lesson in humility. She wasn’t experienced, after all, and some of the other writers at the Bulletin had been ruffled by the attention Ellison gave her. She was happy to prove herself, sharpening her skills on these boring events.

But weddings… there was just something she couldn’t quite put her finger on, some feeling of disgust, derision… perhaps even jealousy (but only when everyone looked starry-eyed with happiness). She’d fought Ellison on this one, insisting that she didn’t actually need to be at the event to write about the heiress’s expensive dress, or the groom’s obvious jitters. She could have called a guest or two and just typed something up. It was a total cop-out of course, and Ellison had seen right through it.

So here she was, sitting like some lonely distant cousin, drinking glass after glass of astonishingly terrible red wine (couldn’t rich people afford the services of a sommelier?). The ceremony had been a ghastly, seemingly endless display of overly saccharine vows and even ghastlier bridesmaid dresses (she’d never be able to forget that shade of mustard yellow).

She smiled to herself, imagining the look of frustration on Ellison’s face when she turned in her story. _Karen, ‘troglodytic’ is not a good word to use when describing the fiancé of the mayor’s daughter._ She glanced over to the whey-faced groom, watching with disgust as he schmoozed with his new father-in-law, insincerity dripping from his very pores. It seemed like this was a marriage of convenience. Karen didn’t doubt that the groom would soon be the recipient of many lucrative city contracts. She made a mental note, already itching to get home and start investigating. 

Hours later, she stumbled out of the event hall, face flushed with alcohol, her kitten heels suddenly feeling like they were nine inch stilettos. The pavement undulated like gently cresting waves as she tried to walk. Leaning against a lamp post, she swung her arm out to hail a cab.

No one stopped. It was late, and in this part of the city all these silver-spooned socialites were driven around in town cars. She sighed, resigning herself to walking to the nearest subway station, pepperspray clutched in her right hand. Not for the first time tonight, she wished she’d brought a date, someone to lean against as they walked home. The maudlin thought barely had a chance to percolate before a crack in the sidewalk caught one of her heels and sent her flying. 

Her palms caught the pavement, burning as the rough surface scraped at the skin. She cringed at the sound of her heel snapping. A not so hushed, “Fuck!” falling from her lips when she righted herself.

“That’s not very ladylike, ma’am.”

Her head snapped around at the sound of his voice, low and husky coming from the darkness. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her swimming vision, but she couldn’t see a damn thing. She steadied her breathing and straightened her posture (as much as she could with a broken heel). “I’m not feeling very fucking ladylike at the moment, Frank.”

How long had it been since she’d seen him? Weeks? Months? It felt like years. It wasn’t unusual for him to fall off her radar occasionally, but she’d begun to get worried this time, all signs of the punisher vanishing from the city. Scumbags were letting their guard down a little, and everywhere seemed just a little less safe.

He stepped out of the shadows, barely, holding out a hand. “You dropped your pepper spray.”

There was a smirk there in the shadows, she could hear it in the way he said the last word. She reached out and snatched away the object of his derision, nearly tripping a second time in her uneven footwear. “I couldn’t exactly wear my holster with this dress.”

It was true, sort of. There was absolutely no room to hide anything wearing this dress, and her .308 might have fit in the tiny hand bag she paired with the slinky number, but she hadn’t wanted to chance getting barred from the event. She felt the heat rising on her cheeks as Frank gave her a slow up and down. His eyes seemed to linger on the vee that dipped low on her sternum, the warm tingle of his gaze slowly traveling up the flimsy straps holding the garment up. 

She reached up to brush the hair away from her face, feeling suddenly self conscious and too warm on such a balmy night. “Have you been following me?”

Instead of answering, Frank swiftly stepped forward, crowding her, making it hard to breathe. He reached for her hand, turning it palm up and examining the damage she’d done. He huffed out an annoyed grunt. “You’re hurt.”

His proximity made her light-headed, or perhaps it was the gallon of sugar-laden wine she’d imbibed. The strange giddiness in her chest could have been caused by either, and she lost her train of thought, silently watching him run his fingers over the heel of her palm. There were red scratches there, some of them bleeding slightly. She couldn’t feel the pain, a sure sign that she’d drank too much.

She blinked dazedly. “Your hands are so much larger than mine.” The words fell in a whisper, the revelation hanging softly in the air as she turned her palm over to lay flat against his.

She was surprised actually, at the way his palms were broader than her own, his fingers long and graceful, calluses along the edges. The tip of her index finger traced along his life line, something stirring in the pit of her stomach, a longing that she was afraid to put words to. 

Her fingertips burned, thumb pressing against the pulse at his wrist. She ached to follow the steady beating to its source, to lay her head against his chest and listen to the way a broken heart could still function.

Frank pulled away, leaving her cold. “I was following a target, not you. This wedding… It was the first opportunity to take him out that I’ve had in weeks.”

Her eyes widened, the sharpness in his tone sobering. “Who was it?”

“The groom. Didn’t get a chance though…” 

His gaze swept over her again, and Karen shivered at the intensity, trying to remember what they were talking about. “Because of me?”

He jerked his head in the direction of the street. “Come on, Page. Car’s parked across the way. You’re not walking all the way to your apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s too dangerous.”

She slipped her hand in his for a second time, again marveling at the size and strength, some part of her mind curious as to what those hands could do if used gently. She cleared her throat, managing to grab hold of her normally quick wit before it floated away in a fog of alcohol. “Far too dangerous… some scary murderer might step out of the shadows and escort me home without so much as a goodnight kiss.”

He snorted softly, his serious facade slipping for a second. “Nothing so horrible will happen to you, Miss Page, I promise you that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying really hard to get back into the habit of writing. This was an exercise in forcing myself to just write, and I think it came out okay. Don't be shy about letting me know what you think. Comments are always appreciated.


	27. Along Came a Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Tumblr Prompt: You report on the most dangerous gangs in New York, no problem... but you're scared of that tiny little spider?"**

She’s shaking like a leaf when she leaps into his arms. Or rather, she’s shaking like a leaf when she screeches like an owl and clumsily climbs across the couch until she’s practically sitting in his lap. For a moment Frank has no idea what is happening, his adrenaline shooting through him, heart pounding against his sternum. The handle of his glock is pressed against the palm of his right hand before he registers what she’s frantically yelling. 

“Kill it!” 

He blinks, flicking the safety back on and reholstering the gun under his arm. It takes him a beat longer than it should to untangle their limbs and deposit her back on the couch. She’s all soft hair and smooth skin. A hint of something he’d rather not give a name too causes the muscles in his lower abdomen to tense before he takes a deep breath. “Kill what, exactly?” 

The question comes out softer than he’d intended, getting caught in the back of his throat halfway through. She’s oblivious, her eyes still wide as saucers, darting back and forth as they search for the thing that sent her into a frenzy. “It’s a spider, Frank. A big, disgusting, hairy spider.” She shudders at the description, goosebumps cascading across her skin. 

Frank glances where she points. Sitting on top of her most recent file is the biggest wolf-spider he’s ever laid eyes on. It darts across the coffee table in his direction, and he grabs the nearest book, ready to turn it into a brown smear. 

But a hand stops him. Karen’s delicately boned fingers curl his wrist with surprising strength. “Don’t kill it.” 

Frank side eyes her. “Kill it. Don’t kill it. What exactly is it you want me to do here ma’am?” 

She’s blushing now. The heat of embarrassment crawling up her neck to her ears. Watching it makes Frank’s own cheeks feel warm for some reason, the unknown feeling twisting in his gut for a second time in less than five minutes. She stammers, “Uh.. c-catch and release?” 

This time he laughs, snorting out an unexpected chuckle. Karen Page, the crime beat reporter for Hell’s Kitchen, a woman who unflinchingly put half a dozen bullets in a man who was threatening to kill her, a woman who regularly galivants around with one of the country’s most wanted murderers, _that_ Karen Page is asking him, Frank ‘no half measures’ Castle, _The_ Punisher, to catch a release a spider for her. It’s borderline hysterical. He can’t help but poke at her. “You’re lucky I relate to the wolf spider, ma’am.” 

She watches him swish the spider into one of her coffee cups with a discarded file folder, gently laying it atop the cup so the creature can’t escape. The tension rolls out of her shoulders as soon as it’s out of sight, her attention finally landing on Frank again. “You what?” 

He almost wishes she was still too scared to pay him any mind. He shouldn’t have said a damn thing. Now she’s looking at him with her head cocked to the side, interested piqued, affection making her blue eyes glow. Shit. 

He moves to her window, opening it to release his prisoner onto the fire escape. He tells himself he’s not going to say a thing, that he’ll just turn around and point her back toward their investigation. His voice echoes against the walls before the window is even completely shut. “Wolf spiders eat those asshole spiders like brown recluses and black widows, but they would never hurt an innocent lady.” 

_Like you…_ Shit. 

Her hand is back on his wrist again before he can even turn around. She thumbs the sensitive skin at his wrist, the heat of her body radiating behind him. “So… they’re good then?” 

Her voice wavers slightly, tone far too serious for this stupid conversation. His skin burns where she touches it, and the desire to twist around and let the heat at his back envelop him is a strong one. The closest he can get is to turn slightly and look at her face, her slightly parted lips, the soft expression in her eyes. Nodding, he disengages from her, growling, “A spider’s a spider, ma’am.”


End file.
